p    n  ' "'. 


••" e 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MONSIGNY 


BY    THE    SAME    AUTHOR 


JOURNEYS   END 
THE   GARDEN  OF  LIES 


Copyright,  lyoz,  by 
Ess  Ess   Publishing   Company 

Copyright,  iox>?,  by 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

Published,  August,    190? 


An   abridged  version  of  this  story  was  published   in   The  Smart  Set,  and   it 
is  issued   in   book  form  as  originally  written   by  courtesy  of  the   publishers. 


TO 
MOTHER 


CONTENTS 


Chapter         I.      .         .         . 

3 

Chapter       II. 

.      13 

Chapter     III.      . 

o             e             •             •             •          35 

Chapter      IV.      , 

>      S3 

Chapter        V.      .         •         • 

.       .        .        .      67 

Chapter      VI.      .         «         . 

93 

Chapter    VII.      . 

.     113 

Chapter  VIII.      .         . 

."      .        .        .        .     133 

Chapter      IX.      . 

.     151 

Chapter       X. 

.        .        .        .        .     165 

Chapter      XI. 

179 

Chapter    XII.      . 

.     191 

Chapter  XIII.      . 

.     209 

Chapter  XIV.      . 

.       221 

LIST  OF 
ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  Save  for  her  yellow  golden  hair,  the  woman  in  the 
picture  might  have  been  painted  with  absolute 
fidelity  from  the  Isabeau  whom  he  knew."  Frontispiece 


FACING   PAGE 


"  They   went    down    the    curving    marble    steps    and 

stood  by  the  little  oblong  pool."  ...       47 

"  .     .     .     knelt  down  beside  the  tomb,  and  said  a  little 

prayer  for  the  soul  of  her  mother."        ...       91 

"  She  found  herself  lying  upon  the  turf  by  the 
roadside,  and  young  Beresford  on  his  knees 
beside  her." 174 


MONSIGNY 


CHAPTER  I 

WHEN  the  twenty-first  Marquis  de  Mon- 
signy  died,   in   1875,  the  title  lapsed, 
since    there    was    no  male  heir,   but 
Chateau     Monsigny,     near    Versailles,    and    the 
fortune,    which   was    large,    passed  to  the    Mar 
quis's     young     daughter     Isabeau,     who      had 
married,  but  a  few  months  before,  Richard,  Vis 
count  Stratton,  eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of  Strope. 

This  marriage  was,  from  a  worldly  point  of 
view,  by  no  means  a  proud  one  for  an  heiress  of 
one  of  the  oldest  houses  in  France,  but  it  was  a 
love  match,  and  the  Marquis,  who  was  an  old 
man,  made  very  gentle  by  great  suffering,  and 
come,  moreover,  to  the  years  when  all  matters  of 
rank  and  title  seem  but  petty  things,  would  not 
oppose  it,  but  gave  his  ready  consent,  stipulating 
only  that  the  young  couple  should  make  Chateau 
Monsigny  their  home,  rather  than  Strope  Manor, 
even  when,  in  course  of  time,  the  Viscount  should 
succeed  to  his  father's  title;  so  that,  though  the 
Monsigny  name  must  die,  the  chateau  might  not 

3 


4  MONSIGNY 

pass  from  Monsigny  blood  into  strange  and  care 
less  hands. 

And  so,  when  the  old  gentleman  was  at  last 
carried  away  swiftly  by  one  of  the  ailments  that 
wait  upon  extreme  age,  Richard  Viscount  Stratton 
and  Isabeau,  his  wife,  settled  down  in  the  ancient 
home  of  her  fathers,  to  the  stately,  quiet  life  of 
French  aristocracy,  seeing  little  of  that  Paris 
which  lay  so  near  at  hand,  but  taken  up  wholly 
with  the  great  passion  of  love  which  they  bore 
each  other. 

They  were  a  strange  couple  in  many  ways; 
they  seemed  strangely  mismated,  for  the  English 
man  was  a  strong,  silent,  cold  man,  iron-faced 
and  sparing  of  speech ;  while  Isabeau  de  Monsigny 
was  all  tenderness  and  soft  affection,  all  melting 
glances  and  caressing  words.  One  would  have 
prophesied  two  broken  hearts  at  the  end  of  a 
month,  but  those  few  who  were  privileged  to  visit 
Chateau  Monsigny  at  this  time  have  said  that 
the  happiness  of  the  two  was  something  more  won 
derful  than  may  be  told.  They  have  said  how  Lord 
Stratton' s  hard,  grim  face  was  wont  to  soften 
most  strangely  when  his  wife  was  by,  and  his  eyes 
to  follow  her  as  she  moved  about,  and  his  voice 
'to  take  on  a  certain  low  tone  when  he  spoke  to  her. 

They  have  said  how  Isabeau  was  wont  to  start 


MONSIGNY  5 

and  flush  a  little  when  her  husband  spoke,  and 
how  she  could  never  go  near  him  without  laying 
her  hand  upon  his  arm — touching  him  somewhere, 
leaning,  for  an  instant,  against  his  shoulder. 
They  have  said  how  the  two  would  walk  together 
in  the  dusk  or  by  moonlight,  up  and  down  the 
terrace  to  the  south  of  the  chateau,  or,  of  a  morn 
ing,  in  the  rose  gardens,  and  how,  when  they 
thought  no  one  was  looking,  Isabeau  would  walk 
a  half  pace  before  her  husband,  leaning  back  so 
that  her  head  and  shoulders  lay  upon  his  breast 
and  his  arm  held  her  from  falling. 

They  have  related  many  such  little  things  in 
trying  to  picture  a  love  far  too  great  to  be  pictured, 
and  have  shaken  their  heads  when  questioned 
further,  saying  in  awed,  hushed  tones  that  such  a 
love  is  for  no  man  to  attempt  to  probe  or  to 
describe. 

Then,  since  it  is  not  allowed  that  a  perfect  joy 
shall  endure  here  below,  Isabeau  de  Monsigny, 
when  she  had  been  two  years  married,  bore  a 
daughter,  and,  after  lingering  between  worlds  for 
another  year,  died  with  her  beautiful  head  upon 
her  husband's  shoulder,  and  was  laid  in  the  old 
chapel  of  Chateau  Monsigny  with  the  others 
of  her  name. 

Men  said  that  Lord  Stratton  was  altered  very 


6  MONSIGNY 

little  outwardly.  His  face  went  a  little  thinner 
and  more  impassive  and  grim,  and  his  hair  turned 
a  bit  gray,  but  no  one  ever  saw  him  show  signs  of 
grief.  He  shut  himself  up  in  the  chateau  with 
the  child  and  a  few  servants,  and  for  fifteen  years 
he  lived  a  virtual  hermit,  seldom  leaving  the 
estate,  save  that  now  and  then  he  was  compelled 
to  go  to  England  for  a  few  days  upon  affairs 
connected  with  his  property  there. 

And  as  time  went  on,  his  father,  the  old  Earl  of 
Strope,  came  to  spend  a  great  deal  of  his  time  at 
the  chateau,  partly  because  he  was  much  out  of 
humour  with  the  political  trend  in  his  own  country 
and  considered  that  the  British  Empire  was, 
notwithstanding  his  warnings,  on  the  broad  path 
to  ruin,  and  partly  because  he  was  genuinely 
fond,  in  his  gruff,  undemonstrative  fashion,  of  his 
eldest  son,  whom  he  persisted  in  considering  an 
irresponsible  child. 

The  two  men  were,  even  at  this  time,  singularly 
alike  in  almost  every  way,  and  they  grew  more  so 
with  each  succeeding  year  till  the  very  end  of  the 
Earl's  long  life.  They  were  tall  men — and  in  this 
matter  the  elder  had  the  advantage  of  an  inch  or 
so,  for  he  must  have  been  quite  six  feet  two  or 
three — loose-boned  and  lean,  but  very  broad  in 
the  shoulders  and  long  in  arms  and  legs.  They 


MONSIGNY  7 

had  thin  faces  with  a  strong,  hooked  nose,  and 
deepset  eyes,  and  a  square  jaw,  and  they  both 
wore  a  rather  heavy  drooping  mustache,  and  a 
mouche  beneath  the  lower  lip.  The  Earl's 
hair  and  mustache  were  almost  entirely  white; 
there  was  the  slighest  tinge  of  reddish  colour  in 
them,  though  his  hair  had  been,  in  earlier  life,  a 
pale  yellow,  and  not  red.  The  Viscount's  hair 
was  grizzled,  yellow  and  gray.  Further,  the  old 
Earl  had  extremely  heavy  and  projecting  eye 
brows,  with  a  trick  of  working  them  up  and  down 
in  a  most  surprising  fashion.  He  was  an  enor 
mously  powerful  man  physically — much  more  so 
than  his  son,  and  became  in  his  old  age  rather 
vain  of  his  strength,  and  fond  of  performing  feats, 
though  he  often  forgot  how  strong  he  was  and 
broke  things  about  him  quite  unintentionally, 
or  nearly  crushed  the  hand  of  a  friend  in  an 
absent-minded  grip. 

It  must  have  been  a  very  strange  life  that  they 
led  at  Chateau  Monsigny  during  those  years,  the 
two  silent,  stern  men  and  the  child  with  her 
governesses  and  tutors — English  and  French 
women.  The  child,  as  she  grew  into  girlhood, 
came  to  be  like  her  mother  to  a  startling  degree. 

"She  is  all  Monsigny;  there  is  nothing  Stratton 
about  her,  thank  God!"  the  Viscount  had  said 


8  MONSIGNY 

one  day  to  his  father  as  they  stood  on  the  high 
south  terrace  of  the  chateau  and  watched  her 
rolling  about  in  the  dust  of  the  drive  below  with 
a  certain  shaggy  puppy  with  whom  she  was  on 
terms  of  intimacy. 

The  old  Earl  laughed.  "Yes,  thank  God!" 
said  he.  "It  would  have  been  a  pity  if  she  had 
resembled  us.  We  should  not  make  very  hand 
some  women,  you  and  I.  She  is  all  Monsigny, 
but  her  hair  is  paler  than  her  mother's. " 

And  this  was  true.  Isabeau  de  Monsigny  the 
elder — they  had  named  the  child  after  her  mother 
— had  had  very  beautiful  yellow  hair,  but  the 
little  girl's  hair  was  so  pale  that  it  was  almost 
white.  While  she  was  very  young  it  bade  fair 
considerably  to  lessen  her  beauty,  and  the  women 
of  the  chateau  were  wont  to  shake  their  heads 
over  it  sadly,  but  later,  when  she  was  old  enough 
to  dispense  with  braids  and  to  coil  the  pale  mass 
upon  her  head,  they  saw,  all  at  once,  how  amaz 
ingly  beautiful  it  was  in  contrast  with  her  very 
pink  skin  and  her  dark  eyebrows  and  purple  eyes. 

It  must  have  been  a  strange  life  and  very 
lonely,  for  hardly  any  one  was  asked  to  the 
chateau  or  dared  pass  its  gates  uninvited.  The 
child  was  busy  with  her  lessons  and  with  her 
play,  and  the  two  men  occupied  themselves  with 


MONSIGNY  9 

the  management  of  the  property,  or,  if  it  was 
the  season,  shot  or  fished  over  the  coverts  and 
streams  of  the  vast  estate. 

But  when  the  child  began  to  grow  tall  and 
slender  and  to  lengthen  her  skirts,  and  ceased 
rolling  about  in  the  dust  with  the  puppies;  when 
it  became  very  evident  that  she  was  a  child  no 
longer,  the  Viscount  seemed  to  waken  with  a 
start  from  his  long  apathy.  He  saw  that  his 
responsibilities  must  now  be  heavy,  that  his 
daughter  might  no  longer  be  left  in  the  care  of 
servants  and  governesses,  and  that  this  life 
of  utter  seclusion  must  come  to  an  end. 

He  sent  first  for  a  certain  French  woman, 
Madame  de  Brissal,  a  widowed  relative  of  his  dead 
wife,  a  drab -coloured  individual  who  wore  caps 
and  knit  impossible  articles  of  gray  wool  which, 
when  finished,  were  never  again  seen;  and  this 
woman  who  was,  withal,  a  kindly  and  motherly 
old  soul,  he  installed  at  Chateau  Monsigny  to  lend 
the  girl  countenance  in  the  event  of  the  coming, 
from  time  to  time,  of  visitors. 

Also  he  took  his  daughter  occasionally  to  Paris, 
where  he  saw  to  it  that  she  was  properly  outfitted 
by  the  proper  people.  It  gave  him  a  little  shock 
of  keen  pleasure,  not  unmixed  with  as  keen  a  pain, 
to  see  that  she  had  her  mother's  judgment,  almost 


io  MONSIGNY 

amounting  to  genius  in  its  originality,  about 
matters  of  dress,  though  he  was  not  a  man  who, 
as  a  rule,  noticed  such  things  in  women. 

Being  an  Englishman  and  without  the  conti 
nental  conservatism,  he  also  took  her,  when  they 
were  in  town,  to  the  opera  and  to  certain  of  the 
less  objectionable  plays  at  the  theatre,  and  he 
drove  with  her  on  fine  days  in  the  Bois  or  up  the 
Champs  Elysees  and  into  the  Avenue.  And, 
late  in  the  winter,  when  the  tide  of  people 
was  turning  southward  to  escape  the  wind  and 
cold  rain,  they  would  go  for  a  month  to  Nice 
or  to  Cannes  or  to  Mentone,  where  he  had  a 
villa,  or  even  to  Rome. 

"  For, "  he  said  once  or  twice  to  the  girl,  "  though 
you  are  all  French  and  never  will  be  anything  but 
French,  I  don't  want  you  to  grow  up  the  ignorant 
fool  that  other  French  girls  are.  You  might  as 
well  become  used  to  seeing  a  man  without  palpita 
tion  of  the  heart,  and  to  realising  that  the  world 
is  not  bounded  by  the  walls  of  Chateau  Monsigny. 
I  am  not  certain  that  those  queer  American  young 
women  are  not  worth  learning  a  thing  or  two 
from — all  but  their  voices,  that  is. " 

So  the  heiress  of  one  of  the  oldest,  proudest 
houses  in  all  France  came,  in  due  time,  to  twenty 
years,  with  an  endowment  of  beauty  probably  as 


MONSIGNY  ii 

extraordinary  as  any  woman  in  Europe  could 
boast,  and  with  a  knowledge  of  the  world — or  at 
least  such  aspects  of  the  polite  world — as  a  girl 
may  safely  see,  which  might  well  have  caused 
the  twenty-one  Marquesses  of  Monsigny  to  turn 
protestingly  in  their  ornate  tombs. 


CHAPTER  II 


CHAPTER  II 

TOWARD  the  middle  of  the  summer  in  which 
Isabeau  reached  her  twentieth  year,  Lord 
Stratton  had  asked  a  few  people  out  to  Chateau 
Monsigny  from  Paris,  for  a  fortnight.  Three  of 
them  had,  greatly  to  his  annoyance,  been  called 
across  the  channel  at  the  eleventh  hour,  but  the 
other  two,  a  certain  English  widow  whom  he  had 
met  the  preceding  winter  in  Cannes,  and  a  young 
man,  the  Honourable  Ashton  Beresford,  had 
accepted  the  invitation.  Lord  Stratton  was 
annoyed  about  the  other  people,  because  without 
them  the  presence  of  the  English  widow,  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  must  bear  a  certain  point  which  he 
wished  to  avoid.  He  had  relied  upon  the  others 
to  cloak  this  opportunity  of  his  seeing  a  great  deal 
of  Mrs.  Marlowe,  day  by  day,  without  seeming 
outwardly  to  pay  her  marked  attention,  for  he 
had  come  to  the  age  when  men  consider  many 
things  important  which  a  younger  and  more 
impetuous  man  would  scorn.  He  believed  him 
self  genuinely  interested  in  this  woman,  for  she 
appealed  to  him  in  almost  every  way,  and  he  had 


16  MONSIGNY 

begun  to  feel  lonely.  He  realised  that  in  time, 
probably  no  long  time,  Isabeau  must  marry, 
and  he  looked  forward  to  a  solitary  old  age  with 
great  distaste.  He  had  not  a  great  love  to  offer, 
he  knew  that  well,  for  nearly  all  the  love  of  his 
life  was  bound  within  a  certain  marble  tomb  that 
stood  in  the  ancient  chapel  of  Chateau  Monsigny ; 
but  the  past  four  or  five  years  of  moving  about 
among  his  kind,  coming  after  his  long  seclusion, 
had  awakened  in  him  a  perfectly  normal  desire 
to  live  as  did  others,  to  seek  a  companionship 
sweetened  by  such  love  as  he  had  left  in  him, 
against  the  time  when  his  daughter  must  leave 
him  alone. 

He  had  written  to  Mrs.  Marlowe,  at  her  hotel, 
a  letter  of  direction  as  to  what  train  to  take  from 
the  Gare  St.  Lazare  to  Versailles,  telling  her  that 
she  would  be  met  at  the  Versailles  station,  but  this 
letter  she  had  mislaid  and,  after  some  hasty 
inquiries  at  the  hotel,  hurried  across  the  city  to 
the  Gare  Montparnasse,  and  took  a  train,  over 
the  Chemin  de  fer  de  1'Ouest,  arriving  at  Versailles 
at  much  the  expected  time  but,  naturally,  at  the 
wrong  station.  Here,  finding  no  carriage  in 
waiting,  she  drove  over  to  the  chateau,  a  matter 
of  half  an  hour,  in  a  public  fiacre,  much  to  the 
amusement  of  Lord  Stratton,  whom  she  found 


MONSIGNY  17 

walking  up  and  down  the  south  terrace  with  a 
pipe  between  his  teeth. 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence  except  that  it  has  been 
uncomfortable  for  you,"  he  said  when  she  had 
made  her  excuses.  "  Isabeau  is  waiting  with  the 
carriage  in  Versailles,  but  she  will  return  presently. 
Perhaps  you  would  like  to  walk  about  out  here, 
for  a  bit,  till  she  comes.  You  see,  Madame  de 
Brissal  is  with  her,  and  I  do  not  know  where  my 
father  may  be — in  the  gardens,  I  dare  say." 

They  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  stretch 
of  the  broad  terrace  and  Mrs.  Marlowe  looked 
about  her  with  a  very  obvious  delight.  She 
was  a  pretty  woman  who  might  well  have  been 
beautiful  a  few  years  earlier  in  life,  for  she  was 
quite  five-and-thirty,  and  looked  a  bit  tired  and 
worn,  particularly  about  the  eyes,  as  if  long 
unhappiness  had  robbed  her  of  much  of  the  beauty 
which  she  might  otherwise  have  preserved  for 
many  years.  She  was  of  the  very  dark  type, 
with  black  hair,  and  what  is  curiously  termed 
an  olive  skin,  and  her  eyes  were  uncommonly 
fine — gray  and  deep  and  changing  with  every 
mood,  though,  as  has  been  said,  tired,  as  if 
she  had  not  been  happy.  She  had  a  little  girlish 
trick,  when  very  pleased,  of  clasping  her  hands 
at  her  breast  and  smiling  with  flushed  cheeks 


1 8  MONSIGNY 

and  parted  lips  and  eyes  wide  open.  It  was 
perfectly  genuine  and  unconscious,  and  people, 
particularly  men,  were  used  to  call  it  forth  upon 
many  pretexts  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  watching 
it.  She  smiled  now  and  clasped  her  hands  as 
she  looked  about  her. 

"How  perfectly  beautiful  it  is!"  she  cried 
softly.  "How  beautiful  it  is!  One  ought  to 
be  very  happy  here,  Lord  Stratton." 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  said  Lord  Stratton.  "  I  have 
always  held  that  it  is  the  finest  chateau  short  of 
the  Loire  country — the  finest  in  private  owner 
ship,  I  mean.  Of  course,  Versailles  and  St. 
Germain  and  even  Fontainebleau  are  more  im 
pressive,  but  hardly  so  beautiful,  I  think.  Yes," 
he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "one  might  be  very 
happy  here.  I  have  been  very  happy  here,  and 
very  unhappy — and  I  have  been  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other,  but  quite  apathetic  for  a  long  time. 
That  is  much  like  every  one's  life,  isn't  it  ?  But 
I  am  fond  of  Chateau  Monsigny.  I  shall  never 
feel  quite  at  home  anywhere  else,  I  think,  not  even 
in  Strope  Manor.  You  see,  I  have  lived  here  for 
more  than  twenty  years." 

"Twenty  years?"  said  Mrs.  Marlowe  thought 
fully.  "That  is  a  long  time.  And  you  will  live 
here  always,  will  you  not?" 


MONSIGNY  19 

"Not  after  Isabeau  marries,"  said  he,  "and, 
of  course,  she  will  sometime  marry.  Indeed,  I 
should  be  glad,  in  a  way,  if  it  could  be  soon. 
Isabeau  is  twenty,  and  I  believe  in  early  mar 
riages.  One  has  the  keenest  capacity  for  happi 
ness  when  one  is  young.  Of  course  it  will  be  a 
great  pain  to  me,  a  dreadful  wrench  when  she 
leaves  me,  but  I  wish  her  to  be  happy.  My 
father  and  I  will  make  our  permanent  home  then 
in  Strope  Manor,  I  expect,  though  I  should  hope 
very  often  to  visit  Isabeau  here.  Indeed,  I  know 
my  father  would  insist  upon  it,  for  he  and  Isabeau 
are  always  together." 

"Ah,  the  Earl!"  said  Mrs.  Marlowe  with  a 
little  shiver.  "  I  used  to  see  him  at  Nice,  though 
I  never  met  him,  I  believe.  Do  you  know,  I  am 
rather  afraid  of  the  Earl,  he  is  such  a  fierce  old 
gentleman.  His  eyes  seem  to  pierce  fairly 
through  one." 

Lord  Stratton  laughed.  "Oh,  you  will  get 
over  that,"  said  he.  "My  father  is  not  so  fierce 
by  half  as  he  looks.  Indeed,  he  is  usually  the 
mildest  of  men,  though  he  takes  strange  dislikes 
to  people  sometimes.  He  has  aged  greatly  in 
the  past  five  years — you  know  he  is  nearly 
eighty — so  that  he  is  at  times  a  bit  peculiar — 
not  quite  himself.  Of  course  he  is  absolutely 


20  MONSIGNY 

harmless,  always;  but  when  he  is  in  one  of  his 
spells  he  is  a  little  inconsequent,  and  embarrass 
ingly  frank  as  to  his  opinions.  I  hope  you  won't 
take  offense  at  anything  he  may  say.  As  a  rule, 
you  know,  he  is  as  reasonable  as  you  and  I,  and 
his  mental  vigour  is  as  astonishing  as  his  physical 
strength.  I  dare  say  you  have  heard  of  his 
strength.  It  is  almost  unbelievable.  He  is 
always  forgetting  about  it,  and  breaking  things. 
I  have  seen  him  do  the  most  amazing  feats.  He 
is  even  now  many  times  stronger  than  I,  and  I 
am  not  weak.  But  we  were  speaking  of  Isabeau 
and  the  possibility  of  her  marrying." 

"Why  should  you  leave  Chateau  Monsigny 
when  she  marries?"  asked  Mrs.  Marlowe.  "Oh, 
I  see  !  It  belongs  to  her,  does  it  not  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lord  Stratton,  "Chateau  Mon 
signy  belongs  to  Isabeau,  together  with  a  very 
considerable  fortune.  She  is  the  only  living 
member  of  the  family,  though  I  hope  there  will 
be  many  more." 

"I  suppose  you  have  no  one  in  view?"  sug 
gested  Mrs.  Marlowe,  "no  possibility  as  yet?  It 
would  be  a  very  important  marriage,  would  it 
not  ?  The  Monsigny  heiress  and  a  great  beauty, 
too.  One  would  be  rather  particular." 

Lord    Stratton    hesitated.     "Why,"    said    he, 


MONSIGNY  21 

after  a  moment,  "  I  had  intended  saying  nothing 
about  it,  and  have  said  nothing  to  any  one  else, 
but  I  should  be  rather  glad  for  Isabeau  to  marry 
a  young  man  who  is  coming  here  this  evening. 
I  have  known  him  for  two  or  three  years,  and  I 
admire  him  more  than  any  man  I  ever  knew. 
He  has  no  fortune  and  no  title,  though  he  will 
come  into  a  title  in  a  few  years — an  Irish  one, 
alas !  But  he  is  the  sort  of  man  one  cares  for. 
I  should  be  very  sorry  to  see  her  marry  any  one 
of  the  young  men  who  bear  the  great  old  names 
of  France,  for  I  know  them  all.  This  man  has 
stopped  with  us  once,  down  in  Mentone,  and  I 
think  he  and  Isabeau  were  much  taken  with  each 
other,  though  I  gave  them  little  opportunity  to 
be  in  each  other's  company.  I  wonder  if  you 
will  ever  have  met  him ;  his  name  is  Beresford — 
Ashton  Beresford.  He  has  not  been  much  in 

Europe  for  the  past  few Why,  what  is  the 

matter?  Are  you  ill?  Are  you  faint?  Let  me 
take  your  arm.  It  is  the  sun,  I  expect.  I  should 
not  have  let  you  walk  in  it  so  long." 

Mrs.  Marlowe  pulled  herself  up  with  a  little 
shivering  laugh,  and  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
hands  for  a  moment. 

"No,"  she  said,  laughing  again,  "it  wasn't  the 
sun;  it  was  that  wretched  little  lizard  that  ran 


22  MONSIGNY 

under  our  feet.  I  have  a  perfect  terror  of  them 
— lizards  and  snakes  and  all  those  crawling 
things.  Don't  be  alarmed.  Women  have  queer 
dislikes  sometimes,  you  know,  and — likes.  What 
were  you  saying?  Oh,  about  this  young  man, 
Mr.— Mr.  Beresford?" 

"Yes,  Beresford,"  said  Lord  Stratton.  "I  am 
sorry  about  the  lizard.  I  am  afraid  you  will  have 
a  bad  time,  for  there  are  no  end  of  them  about. 
They  come  out  on  the  flagstones  to  sun  them 
selves,  you  know.  It  is  very  interesting  to 
study  people's  dislikes.  Now,  I  have  an  entirely 
uncontrollable  horror  of  dead  things.  The  unex 
pected  sight  of  a  dead  dog  or  cat,  or  even  a  rat, 
will  give  me  a  nervous  shock  which  will  last  for 
hours,  though  I  am  not  in  the  least  a  nervous 
man.  My  father  is  afraid  of  snakes,  but  not,  I 
believe,  of  lizards;  and  with  Isabeau,  I  think  it 
is  spiders.  Every  one  has  some  pet  horror,  and 
in  nearly  every  case  it  is  something  quite  harm 
less.  Are  you  altogether  recovered?" 

"Oh,  quite!"  said  Mrs.  Marlowe.  "It  was 
very  silly  of  me.  And  this — this  Mr.  Beresford  ?  " 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Lord  Stratton.  " I  was  saying 
that  Beresford  had  not  been  much  in  Europe 
recently.  He  had  an  unfortunate  experience 
about  five  years  ago,  which  embittered  him  con- 


MONSIGNY  23 

siderably,  and  drove  him  to  traveling  for  distrac 
tion.  I  did  not  know  him  at  the  time,  and  can 
speak  of  the  thing  only  from  hearsay;  but  he 
became  involved,  I  believe,  in  a  rather  widely 
published  divorce  case.  A  certain  Colonel 
Travers  named  him  in  obtaining  a  divorce  from 
his  wife.  I  think  the  general  impression  was 
that  Beresford  was  made  a  victim.  Personally, 
I  am  quite  sure  of  it,  for  I  know  him  well,  and  he 
is  not  the  sort  of  man  to  figure  in  divorce  suits. 
I  dare  say  his  silence  over  the  matter  was  to 
shield  somebody — probably  the  woman.  At  any 
rate,  I  would  trust  him  implicitly." 

"I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  turning  to  look 
at  the  gray  stone  fagade  of  the  chateau,  "  I  think 
I — remember  something  about  the  affair.  I  had 
forgotten  the  names.  Yes,  I  dare  say  your  friend 
was  innocent.  I  believe  people  thought  so  at 
the — at  the  time.  Yes,  I  suppose  it  has  embit 
tered  him.  It  was  rather  hard  on  him.  There's 
the  woman,  though  !  It  was  harder  on  her  than 
on  any  one,  wasn't  it  ?  Poor  woman  !  No  one 
pitied  her,  I  expect.  They'd  say  it  served  her 
right.  They  always  do.  Yes,  the  woman  had 
the  worst  of  it." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Lord  Stratton,  "but  I  do 
not  agree  with  you  at  all.  Divorces  are  never 


24  MONSIGNY 

granted  against  a  woman  in  England  without 
excellent  cause.  I  am  not  an  intolerant  man,  I 
think,  but  I  have  no  sympathy  with  that  sort  of 
woman." 

Mrs.  Marlowe  halted  in  her  slow  walk  and 
leaned  against  the  stone  of  the  chateau,  warm 
where  the  sun  had  been  upon  it. 

"No,"  said  she,  with  a  little  smile  that  seemed 
a  bit  tired;  "no,  I  didn't  expect  you  would  have. 
No  one  has.  And  yet—  Oh,  well,  let  us 
talk  about  something  more  cheerful !  How  has 
Isabeau  been  since  last  winter  in  Nice  ?  What  a 
beauty  the  child  is  !  I  wonder  if  she  realises 
how  dreadfully  cheap  and  commonplace  she 
makes  the  poor  little  charms  of  the  rest  of  us. 
I  never  saw  another  woman  of  just  her  type,  I 
think.  That  wonderfully  pale  hair  of  hers  makes 
such  an  amazing  contrast  to  her  dark  eyes  and 
eyebrows,  and  to  her  pink  skin.  Other  women 
with  that  ashen  hair  have  white  eyelashes  and 
eyebrows,  and  china  eyes,  but  Isabeau' s  eyes  are 
purple.  I  wonder  if  she  stains  her  eyebrows." 

Lord  Stratton  laughed.  "Not  unless  she  com 
menced  in  the  nursery,"  said  he.  "They  have 
always  been  dark.  She  is  very  like — like  her 
mother."  His  voice  changed  a  little,  and  the 
woman  looked  up  at  him  swiftly.  "Only,"  he 


MONSIGNY  25 

went  on,  "her  hair  is  almost  silvery  instead  of 
golden.  That  is  a  debt  she  owes  to  a  certain 
fifteenth-century  ancestress,  a  Bretonne,  Yvonne 
de  Morlaix,  who  was  carried  off  from  her  father's 
chateau  by  a  Marquis  de  Monsigny,  between  two 
days,  and  made  a  marquise.  The  hair  appears 
every  now  and  then,  once  in  two  or  three  genera 
tions,  possibly,  and  as  a  rule  in  the  women  of  the 
family.  Yes,  Isabeau  is  a  great  beauty.  I 
suppose  she  is  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  Europe. 
The  Grand  Duke  Michael  was  saying  so,  only  last 
winter.  And,  thank  heaven,  she  is  as  lovely  as 
she  is  beautiful.  I  do  not  think  she  is  a  coquette 
—that  is  to  say,  more  of  a  coquette  than  any 
woman  naturally  is;  and  I  know  she  is  not  vain." 
He  paused  a  moment  to  laugh.  "It  will  be 
reasonably  evident,"  said  he,  "that  I  am  a  bit 
proud  of  my  daughter." 

Then  all  at  once  he  turned,  standing  at  a  little 
distance,  and  looked  very  gravely  into  the 
woman's  eyes. 

"It  would  be  a  greater  pleasure  to  me  than  I 
can  express,"  he  said,  "if  you  and  Isabeau  should 
become  fond  of  each  other." 

Mrs.  Marlowe  flushed,  and  her  eyelids  drooped. 
One  of  her  hands  rose  uncertainly  to  the  lace  at 
her  throat.  "I — I  don't  know — just  what  you 


26  MONSIGNY 

— mean,"  she  said,  very  low.  "  I — could  not  help 
loving  that  beautiful  child,  if  I  would.  I  am 
certain  to  become  more  and  more  fond  of  her  if 
— if  ever  I  am  thrown  much  in  her — in  her  com 
pany.  I  am  not  so  sure  of  her  as  of  myself.  I 
doubt  if  I  am  the  sort  to  attract  a  girl.  I  have 
not  had  a  very  happy  life,  Lord  Stratton,  and  I 
have  lost  all  the  girlishness  I  may  ever  have 
possessed." 

Lord  Stratton  moved  nearer  and  took  one  of 
her  hands  in  his,  looking  down  into  her  eyes. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  simply,  and  there  was 
something  in  his  perfectly  earnest  tone,  and  in 
the  big  quiet  rugged  strength  of  him,  as  he  bent 
from  his  height,  that  lent  a  value  to  the  trite 
words.  "I  am  not  an  eloquent  man,"  he  went 
on,  "  I  am  not  at  all  good  at  saying  things,  but  I 
should  like  to  help  you  forget  that  you  have  been 
unhappy.  It  seems  to  me  that  fate  is  sometimes 
very  stupid  in  bringing  grief  to  the  wrong  people." 

"Do  you  think,  Lord  Stratton,"  said  the 
woman,  looking  up  into  his  still,  square  face  where 
grief  had  been  and  left  great  scars  and  furrows, 
"do  you  think  that  one  can  forget?  Do  you 
think  that  one  can  put  everything  behind,  and 
build  a  new  life — oh,  quite  a  new  life?"  There 
was  a  certain  great  wistfulness  in  her  tone  and  in 


MONSIGNY  27 

her  upturned  eyes,  a  certain  appeal  as  of  weak 
ness  to  strength,  for  reassurance  and  protection. 
And  the  hand  that  lay  in  his  firm  grip  trembled 
a  little. 

"Yes,"  said  Lord  Stratton,  looking  down  with 
steady  eyes,  "yes,  one  may  put  everything 
behind  but  love  and  sin,  for  a  great  love  may 
never  be  forgotten  in  this  life  nor,  I  believe, 
beyond,  and  sin  must  be  expiated  here  below. 
But  I  think  neither  of  these  things  has  any  part 
in  you.  Everything  else  may  be  forgotten. 
Will  you  let  us  help  you  to  forget  ?  I  do  not  like 
to  think  of  you  suffering." 

Mrs.  Marlowe  withdrew  her  hand  quietly  and 
turned  half  away,  looking  across  the  tree  tops  to 
the  west,  where  the  sun  lay  yellow  upon  the  hills. 
And  there  was  a  little  tired  smile  at  her  lips. 

"Everything  but  love  and  sin?"  said  she. 
"  Everything  but  love  and  sin  !  I  wonder  if  you 
are  right." 

A  bugle  blew,  to  the  eastward,  very  thin  and 
faint  and  sweet  with  the  distance. 

"Ah!"  said  Lord  Stratton,  "that  will  be 
Isabeau  returning  from  Versailles.  The  porter 
at  the  lodge  blows  a  bugle  when  a  carriage  enters 
the  gates.  She  will  be  here  in  a  moment." 

They  moved  to  the  outer  edge  of  the  raised 


28  MONSIGNY 

terrace,  and  stood  by  the  low  balustrade  watching 
the  avenue  where  it  emerged  from  the  gloom  of 
the  fir-trees  and  swept  across  the  open  to  encircle 
the  chateau,  on  its  way  to  the  stables  beyond. 
After  four  or  five  minutes — for  the  avenue  was 
long — an  open  landau,  behind  white  horses, 
appeared  and  drew  swiftly  up  to  the  broad  steps 
of  the  terrace,  and  Lord  Stratton  went  down  to 
assist  his  daughter  and  Mme.  de  Brissal  to  alight. 

Isabeau,  in  a  very  fluffy  pink-and-white  sum 
mer  frock  and  hat,  and  armed  with  a  surprisingly 
ornate  sunshade  of  the  same  material,  went  up 
at  once  to  welcome  the  visitor.  The  elder 
woman  gave  a  little  gasp  of  sheer  wonder. 

"My  dear!"  she  cried,  "you  are  the  most 
beautiful  thing  I  ever  saw  in  the  world !  You 
grow  more  beautiful  every  day." 

"Oh,  please,  please  !"  begged  the  girl,  distress- 
edly.  "It — it  is  so  good  of  you,  but  so  good! 
But  I— I " 

"Stop  flattering  my  daughter,"  called  Lord 
Stratton  from  the  foot  of  the  steps.  "You  will 
make  her  vain,  and  then  there'll  be  no  living  with 
her."  He  presented  Mrs.  Marlowe  to  Mme.  de 
Brissal,  and  told  Isabeau  to  have  the  visitor 
shown  to  her  apartments. 

"  Propriety  has  kept  us  out  here  on  the  terrace, 


MONSIGNY  29 

waiting  for  you,  for  nearly  an  hour,"  said  he. 
"Mrs.  Marlowe  will  be  thinking  us  heathen." 

Then,  when  the  ladies  had  gone  inside,  and 
the  landau  had  moved  on  toward  the  stables,  he 
fell  again  to  pacing  up  and  down  the  length  of 
the  stone-paved  terrace,  with  his  head  bent  and 
his  hands  clasped  behind  him.  There  was  a  deep 
crease  between  his  brows. 

About  half  an  hour  later  he  saw  the  Earl 
coming  up  from  the  stables  toward  the  chateau, 
and  paused  in  his  walk  to  watch  him.  The 
crease  between  his  brows  disappeared  for  an 
instant,  and  he  gave  a  short  laugh,  as  if  some 
thing  amused  him. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  growled  the  old 
gentleman,  mounting  the  steps  of  the  terrace,  and 
throwing  his  riding-crop  into  a  chair.  "  Is  there 
anything  funny  about  me?  You  have  no  man 
ners  at  all."  And  his  heavy  white  eyebrows 
worked  up  and  down  in  a  quite  intimidating 
fashion. 

"I  was  thinking,  as  I  watched  you  come  up," 
said  Lord  Stratton,  "how  ridiculously  alike  we 
are.  I  might  be  looking  into  a  mirror  at  this 
moment,  except  that  your  hair  is  whiter." 

Indeed,  the  resemblance  was  amazing,  and 
evoked  much  comment  wherever  the  two  men 


3o  MONSIGNY 

were  seen  together.  The  old  Earl's  hair,  as  Lord 
Stratton  had  said,  was  whiter  and  a  bit  more 
sparse,  and  his  eyebrows  had  grown  enormously 
long  and  protruding — shaggy  penthouses  for  his 
keen  eyes.  Also,  his  skin  had  taken  on  the 
extreme  glassy  smoothness  of  old  age,  and  the 
veins  rose  under  it  very  prominently.  His  great 
shoulders  had  a  slight  stoop,  but  they  were  nearly 
as  powerful  as  ever. 

His  rugged  old  face  relaxed  a  bit,  and  he  gave 
a  little  laugh,  for  he  was  very  proud  of  this  like 
ness  between  himself  and  his  son,  as  proud  of  it 
as  of  his  own  great  strength.  He  laid  an  arm 
over  Lord  Stratton's  shoulders,  and  the  two 
walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  terrace. 

"Alike?"  said  the  Earl.  "Of  course  we  are 
alike.  Why  shouldn't  we  be?  All  the  Stratton 
men  have  been  alike.  It  is  a  great  pity,  though, 
that  you  are  such  a  weakling.  You  will  probably 
die  young.  Now  I  dare  say  I  shall  live  to  a 
hundred.  Has  that  woman  come?" 

"If  you  mean  Mrs.  Marlowe,"  said  Lord 
Stratton,  "yes,  she  came  about  an  hour  ago.  It 
is  not  very  civil  of  you,  though,  to  call  her  '  that 
woman.'" 

"I  don't  like  her,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
gruffly.  "I  don't  believe  she  is  honest.  I  used 


MONSIGNY  31 

to  see  her  about,  down  in  Nice,  and  her  eyes  are 
always  scared.  When  you  are  a  bit  older  you 
will  know  enough  not  to  trust  any  one  with 
frightened  eyes.  She  is  hiding  something  that 
she  is  afraid  people  will  find  out.  What  do  you 
know  about  her,  anyhow  ?  Nothing  ! ' ' 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  cried  Lord  Stratton,  with 
some  heat.  "I  know,  and  you  know,  too,  that 
she  was  received  everywhere  in  Nice,  and  there 
must  have  been  people  there  who  knew  all  about 
her.  As  for  her  frightened  eyes,  she  has  had  an 
unhappy  life.  It  leaves  marks,  unhappiness.  I 
dare  say  she  had  a  brute  of  a  husband.  If  you 
must  be  suspicious,  for  heaven's  sake  don't  pick 
out  our  guests  for  your  victims." 

The  Earl  gave  an  inarticulate  growl  and  shook 
his  head. 

"  Who  else  is  coming  ? "  he  demanded  presently. 

"The  Lawsons  and  Mrs.  Lawson's  sister,  Lady 
Eversham,  were  to  have  come,"  said  the  other, 
"but  they  were  called  away  to  England  at  the 
last  moment.  Ashton  Beresford  is  coming.  He 
should  be  here  in  an  hour  or  two." 

"Ah !"  said  the  Earl,  in  a  tone  of  great  satis 
faction.  "Young  Beresford!  Now,  there  is  a 
man  I  like.  He  is  a  very  proper  sort  indeed,  for 
a  mere  boy.  We  shall  be  great  friends.  I  was 


3?  MONSIGNY 

never  entirely  satisfied,  at  Mentone,  as  to  which 
of  us  was  the  stronger.  I  am  glad  he  is  to  be 
here.  I  shall  make  him  stay  a  long  time."  And 
the  old  gentleman  rubbed  his  hands  and  smiled 
in  huge  delight. 

Lord  Stratton  halted,  as  if  tired  of  his  walk, 
and  sat  down  upon  the  broad  stone  coping  of  the 
balustrade.  The  crease  had  come  between  his 
brows  again,  and  he  stared  off  into  the  blue  dis 
tance  from  narrowed  eyes. 

"Isabeau  will  marry,  sometime,"  said  he,  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  opens  a  discussion. 

"  Well, "  said  the  Earl,  "  most  people  do.  What 
of  it  ?  If  only  she  would  have  the  good  sense  to 
pick  out  some  one  like  young  Beresford,  it  would 
be  an  excellent  thing,  though  she  is  not  long  out  of 
the  cradle." 

"And  I,"  continued  Lord  Stratton,  frowning 
still  into  the  blue  distance,  "  I  shall  be  left  alone. 
I  shall  be  very  lonely." 

"Lonely!"  growled  his  father,  "lonely?  Non 
sense  !  Am  I  of  no  account  ?  I  am  not  thinking 
of  marrying  or  of  dying  either.  I  expect  to  out 
live  you.  Besides,  we  should  come  here  often  to 
visit  Isabeau — if  we  liked  her  husband." 

But  Lord  Stratton  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  should  be  very  lonely.     I 


MONSIGNY  33 

have  grown  used  to  having  Isabeau  about,  and 
a  life  without  a  woman  in  it  would  be  something 
that  I  shrink  from.  It  is  no  disloyalty  to — to 
Her,  but  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  living 
alone.  I  shall  never  love  again — not  greatly, 
.that  is,  and  I  shall  never  forget,  but  I  dread  being 
left  alone,  more  than  I  can  say.  What  would 
you  think  if  I  should  marry  again?" 

The  old  Earl  halted  before  his  son,  and  his 
strong  jaw  dropped  in  sheer  amazement. 

"Marry — again?"  he  cried.  "You  marry — 
again  ?  Good  God,  you  are  mad !  You  do  not 
know  what  you  are  saying.  What  should  I 
think  of  it  ?  I  tell  you  I  won't  hear  of  it — not  for 
a  moment.  I  forbid  it  absolutely.  I  can't 
think  what  has  brought  you  to  such  an  absurd 
notion.  Your  brother  has  sons.  Marry  again, 
indeed!" 

"Of  course,"  said  Lord  Stratton,  laughing  a 
little,  "the  idea  is  new  to  you,  and  I  am  not 
altogether  surprised  at  your  opposing  it — though 
as  to  forbidding,  that  is  just  a  bit  extreme,  is  it 
not  ?  I  am  not  exactly  a  child,  you  know.  I  am 
nearly  fifty  years  old." 

"Fifty?  Nonsense!"  cried  the  old  gentleman 
angrily.  "You  are  a  mere  boy,  and  you  are  mad 
into  the  bargain.  I  tell  you,  I  forbid  any  such 


34  MONSIGNY 

folly  as  you  propose.  I  am  the  head  of  the  house, 
and  I  am  your  father.  Let  us  talk  no  more  about 
it.  It  is  out  of  the  question." 

"By  all  means,"  agreed  Lord  Stratton,  "let  us 
talk  no  more  about  it.  We  have  never  quarreled, 
seriously,  and  we  must  not  commence  it  now.  I 
am  glad  you  feel  pleased  about  young  Ashton 
Beresford's  coming  here.  I  remember  that  you 
two  were  great  friends  at  Mentone." 

The  old  Earl  paused  a  moment  near  the  door  of 
the  chateau,  and  the  keen  eyes  under  their  great 
white  brows  rested  thoughtfully  upon  the  younger 
man. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,"  said  he,  "if  it  is  this 
Marlowe  woman  who  has  put  such  extraordinary 
notions  into  your  head.  If  it  is,  you  will  be  very 
sorry  one  day.  I  tell  you  she  is  not  honest.  She 
has  frightened  eyes." 


CHAPTER  III 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  Honourable  Ashton  Beresford  arrived  that 
evening  barely  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  Indeed, 
the  ladies  were  already  at  their  toilet,  and  he  was 
received  only  by  Lord  Stratton  and  the  old  Earl, 
the  latter  of  whom  exhibited  a  gruff  warmth  of 
greeting  most  unusual  with  him. 

Beresford  was  not  a  handsome  young  man; 
indeed,  he  was  almost  ugly,  but  it  was  an  ugliness 
that  attracted  always  rather  than  repelled,  and 
the  strong  ruggedness  of  his  face,  irregular  as  it 
was,  had  no  suggestion  of  coarseness.  He  was 
not  so  tall  by  a  very  little  as  the  two  men  who 
were  his  hosts,  being  a  trifle  under  six  feet; 
but,  as  the  Earl  of  Strope  had  said,  he  was  phe 
nomenally  strong,  though  he  never  made  any 
show  of  his  strength  when  it  could  be  avoided. 

He  was  lean,  like  the  Earl  and  Lord  Stratton, 
but  dark-haired  and  gray-eyed.  He  had  one 
feature  which  seemed  curiously  at  variance  with 
all  his  other  outward  characteristics,  for  his 
mouth,  set  in  a  strong,  stern  face,  eagle-beaked 
and  square- jawed,  was  the  mouth  of  a  woman, 

37 


38  MONSIGNY 

though  he  seemed  by  habit  to  have  drawn  its 
curves  into  a  straightness  and  hardness  unnatural 
to  them.  And  this  woman's  mouth,  so  out  of 
place  over  its  jutting  chin,  was  a  sort  of  outward 
and  visible  symbol  of  certain  very  important 
elements  of  character  and  of  temperament  that 
were  always  at  war  with  the  man's  nature,  and 
that  gave  rise  to  some  very  interesting  results, 
as  such  elements  are  apt  to  do. 

The  three  men  were  standing  in  the  great 
central  hall  of  the  chateau  when  the  ladies  came 
down  to  dinner.  This  hall  was  in  the  oldest 
portion  of  the  building  and,  being  a  rather  cheer 
less  place,  was  seldom  used  save  on  very  formal 
occasions,  for  the  newer  wings,  which  had  been 
from  time  to  time  added  to  the  ancient  pile,  were 
far  more  comfortable.  It  was  a  very  long  room, 
comparatively  narrow  and  of  great  height,  arched 
over  with  stone  in  the  ancient  fashion,  stone 
walled  and  paved  with  flags  of  black  and  white, 
worn  with  age  and  sunken  here  and  there.  There 
was  a  balcony  at  one  end,  with  mullioned  windows 
behind  and  under  it,  and  in  the  gray  stone  walls 
there  were  niches  filled  with  marble  busts  of  the 
Marquises  of  Monsigny. 

In  a  long  row  against  one  wall  the  armour  of 
all  the  heads  of  the  house  stood  upon  effigies,  and 


MONSIGNY  39 

their  shields  and  weapons  hung  above.  At  night 
the  great  room  was  lighted  by  lamps  which  hung 
on  chains  from  the  high  arches,  but  there  was  a 
row  of  clere-story  windows  far  up  near  the  roof, 
to  let  in  the  daylight. 

A  fire  burned  in  the  huge  fireplace  at  one  side, 
and  before  it  the  three  men  stood  talking,  but  no 
fire  could  warm  the  great  hall  even  in  the  heart 
of  summer.  It  was  chill  and  damp  and  smelled 
of  the  grave. 

"We  have  only  one  other  guest,"  Lord  Stratton 
was  saying.  "The  Lawsons  and  Lady  Eversham 
disappointed  us.  I  hope  it  won't  be  dull  for  you. 

Mrs.  Mar "  But,  just  at  that  moment,  a 

servant  parted  the  hangings  from  the  arched 
doorway  and  the  three  ladies  came  down  the 
room. 

Beresford's  gaze  was  fixed  upon  Isabeau  de 
Monsigny — she  was  always  called  de  Monsigny 
because  she  was  the  heiress  of  that  house — and 
he  had  no  eyes  for  her  two  companions.  She  was 
again  in  pink,  for  she  knew  that  it  suited  her  to 
perfection,  and  her  strange  pale  hair  glowed  silver 
in  the  light  from  the  hanging  lamps.  He  thought 
that  he  had  never  in  all  his  life  seen  anything  so 
marvelously  beautiful — which  was,  in  sober  truth, 
undoubtedly  so;  and  the  blood  surged  to  his 


40  MONSIGNY 

temples  and  beat  there  furiously  while  he  took 
her  hand  and  looked  down  into  her  eyes,  quite 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he  should  first  have 
greeted  Madame  de  Brissal. 

Lord  Stratton  was  presenting  his  father  to 
Mrs.  Marlowe.  That  lady  changed  colour  a  bit 
under  the  glare  of  the  old  gentleman's  piercing 
eyes,  and  advanced  a  rather  unsteady  hand,  which 
the  Earl  promptly  enclosed  in  a  grip  that  would 
have  crushed  a  hand  of  wood.  It  immediately 
evoked  a  very  heartfelt  scream. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  demanded.  "Eh, 
what,  what  ?  Oh,  I  beg  pardon !  Did  I  hurt 
you?  Didn't  mean  to  do  that.  Beg  pardon. 
Don't  look  so  frightened.  Your  eyes  are  always 
scared.  Nothing  to  be  afraid  of  here,  my  dear, 
if  you  haven't  done  anything  wrong.  Don't  look 
so  frightened."  And  he  turned  impatiently  to 
Madame  de  Brissal. 

Beresford  had,  by  this  time,  so  nearly  come  to 
his  senses  as  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  old 
French  woman,  whom  he  genuinely  liked,  and 
was  inquiring  of  her  after  the  well-being 
of  a  certain  great  Persian  cat  which  was, 
next  to  Isabeau,  the  pride  of  her  exist 
ence,  and  which  had  been  dangerously  ill 
the  winter  before  in  Mentone.  But  Lord 


MONSIGNY  41 

Stratton  took  him  by  the  arm  and  turned  him 
about. 

"Mrs.  Marlowe,"  he  said,  "will  you  allow  me 
to  present  the  Honourable  Ashton  Beresford?" 

Isabeau,  who  was  watching  young  Beresford' s 
face  for  reasons  of  her  own,  thought  that  a  sudden 
slight  spasm  passed  over  it  as  he  faced  the  other 
guest,  that  the  lips  drew  very  tight  for  a  moment, 
and  the  eyes  narrowed.  Also,  she  was  quite  cer 
tain  that  he  quickly  withdrew  the  hand  he  had 
put  forward,  and  she  wondered  if  he  could  ever 
have  known  this  woman  at  some  previous  time, 
or  if  she  recalled  to  him  something  disagreeable. 
But  if,  for  the  moment,  he  showed  any  slight  sign 
of  emotion,  it  was  gone  at  once,  and  his  manner, 
as  he  made  some  civil  and  commonplace  remark, 
was  quite  ordinary.  As  for  Mrs.  Marlowe,  her 
bearing  was  so  altogether  self-possessed  that 
Isabeau  began  to  think  she  must  have  been  mis 
taken,  and  to  call  herself  impolite  names  for 
creating  drama  where  there  was  nothing  dramatic. 

They  went  in  to  dinner  at  once,  and  the  Earl 
offered  some  slight  divertisement  during  the  soup 
by  breaking  a  flower  vase.  It  had  been  set  too 
near  his  plate,  and  in  attempting  to  remove  it 
he  crushed  the  strong  glass  in  his  great  hand  and 
spread  a  little  lake  of  water  out  over  the  table. 


42  MONSIGNY 

"Dear  me!"  said  he.  "That  was  very  care 
less.  They  really  should  not  put  fragile  things 
about  where  I  can  get  at  them.  I  am  so  cursedly 
strong,  you  know,"  he  apologised  mildly,  and  fell 
to  muttering  to  himself  over  his  soup  in  an 
annoyed  undertone. 

"You  must  not  mind  grandpere,"  said  Isabeau 
to  Ashton  Beresford,  who  sat  beside  her.  "When 
he  is  in  one  of  his  forgetful  moods  he  does  the 
most  amazing  things.  He  has  been  rather  low 
in  his  mind  of  late.  I  hope  you  will  cheer  him 
up.  He  is  tremendously  fond  of  you,  you  know. 
I  think  he  has  never  before  met  any  one  as  strong 
as  himself." 

"It  is  not  exactly  flattering  to  be  valued  just 
because  one  is  a  sort  of  a  freak  of  nature,"  com 
plained  Beresford  morosely.  "One  would  like 
to  feel  that  one  had  personal  qualities  of  a 
sort — if  only  one  didn't  know  that  one  had  not." 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  Isabeau  with  great  sympathy. 
"Have  you  nothing  to  recommend  you  but  your 
strength?  I'm  so  sorry!  Still,  you  know,"  she 
went  on  encouragingly,  "it  isn't  every  one  who 
has  even  the  strength."  Then  she  looked  up  into 
his  face  for  a  moment,  not  smiling,  and  he  saw 
that  the  purple  eyes  were  almost  black  by  candle 
light,  and  softer  than  any  words  might  say. 


MONSIGNY 


43 


" Don't  be  silly  ! "  said  the  girl,  very  low.  "As 
if  your  strength  mattered — except  to  grandpere  I 
Still,  do  you  know,  it's  rather  nice  to  be  strong. 
Aren't  you  glad  you  are  ?  I  don't  think  I  could 
ever  care — have  much  respect  for  a  man  who  was 
weak.  I  remember  once,  down  at  Mentone,  I 
came  into  a  room,  and  a  wretched  little  Italian 
marchese  ran  to  get  me  a  chair.  There  was  only 
one  chair  in  view,  and  it  was  rather  a  heavy 
one.  Would  you  believe  it,  that  poor  little 
man  could  not  lift  it?  I  had  to  go  and 
help  hint.  Why,  I  could  have  carried  the 
thing  myself !  And  then,"  continued  Mile, 
de  Monsigny  pensively,  "then  the  creature 
actually  tried  to  make  love  to  me  after  all 
that!" 

"Now,  if  only  I  could  have  been  there !"  said 
Beresford. 

"Why — why,  yes!"  cried  the  girl  quickly. 
"You  could  have  carried  the  chair,  couldn't 
you?" 

"Carried  the  chair?"  said  he. 

"Why — yes,"  said  the  girl.  And  he  noted 
that,  at  times,  the  contrast  between  her  won 
derful  pale  hair  and  her  pink  skin  was  greatly 
accentuated.  "What  else?"  said  she,  looking  at 
the  table. 


44  MONSIGNY 

"You  said  he  made  love  to  you,"  prompted  the 
Honourable  Mr.  Beresford  helpfully. 

"I  said  he  tried  to,"  she  corrected. 

"I  wish  I'd  been  there,"  sighed  Mr.  Beresford. 

The  girl  looked  up  for  the  smallest  fraction  of 
a  second,  with  a  flash  of  purple  eyes,  and  a 
little — oh,  a  very  little  ! — dimpling  smile. 

"  I  think  I  wish  you  had  been,"  said  she. 

"I  am  here  now,"  he  suggested. 

"Grandpere  will  be  so  pleased,"  said  she,  and 
Beresford  developed  a  sudden  interest  in  his 
dinner. 

"Of  course  we  are  all  pleased,"  she  stated 
presently. 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Beresford. 

Old  Mme.  de  Brissal  was,  after  her  fashion, 
delivering  a  placid  monologue  to  the  somnolent 
and  wholly  inattentive  Earl,  and  Beresford  found 
himself  watching  the  other  two  at  the  table. 
Lord  Stratton  seemed  roused,  to  a  most  unusual 
degree,  from  his  habitual  attitude  of  indifference 
and  reserve.  He  was  leaning  forward,  with  his 
arms  against  the  edge  of  the  table,  toward  the 
woman  who  sat  at  his  right,  and  there  was  an 
unwonted  light  in  his  deep-set  eyes,  and  a  slight 
flush  upon  his  cheeks. 

He  was  talking  in  a  tone  of  light  banter,  and 


MONSIGNY  45 

when  Lord  Stratton  descended  to  banter  it  meant 
a  great  deal. 

Beresford  sat  watching  the  two  under  puzzled 
brows,  and  then,  as  he  turned  with  a  start  of 
recollection  to  the  girl  at  his  side,  he  saw  that  she 
also  was  looking  toward  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  and  that  she  was  frowning  slightly  and 
biting  her  lip,  as  if  she  could  not  make  out  the 
situation.  He  ventured  some  commonplace 
remark,  and  she  turned  to  him  at  once,  but 
through  all  the  rest  of  the  dinner  she  was  a  bit 
silent  and  distrait,  and  her  eyes  strayed  often 
down  the  table  toward  her  father  and  the  woman 
who  sat  beyond  him. 

It  was  a  warm  and  very  beautiful  evening,  with 
a  moon,  and  a  sky  so  clear  that  the  stars  seemed 
almost  near  enough  to  be  touched  with  the  hand. 
The  whole  party  went  out  upon  the  south  terrace 
for  their  coffee. 

Directly  before  the  terrace,  the  avenue,  broad 
and  white  in  the  moonlight,  swept  past  on  its 
course  toward  the  stables;  but  across  the  avenue 
the  ground  fell  away  swiftly  toward  the  little  flat 
valley  beyond,  with  its  lagoon  and  its  formally 
arranged  shrubbery  and  grass-plots  and  paved 
walks.  And  in  this  steep  bank,  from  which  the 
earth  had  been  cut  away  to  make  place,  a  great 


46  MONSIGNY 

fountain  had  been  set,  backed  by  a  sculptured 
wall  of  marble.  There  was  a  huge  group  of 
mermen  and  Nereids  with  dolphins  playing  about 
their  feet,  and  the  water  spurted  over  them  from 
the  wall  behind,  and  from  the  mouths  of  the 
dolphins.  Shrubbery  grew  close  and  dark  at  the 
sides,  and  hung  over  the  wall  from  the  bank 
above,  and  there  was  a  long  pool  of  still  water, 
marble-curbed,  that  made  an  approach  to  the 
fountain.  Beyond  the  pool,  terraced  flights  of 
marble  steps,  and  smaller  fountains,  swept  down 
to  the  plaisance  below.  Also,  marble  steps 
ascended  in  a  curve  on  either  side  of  the  great 
fountain  to  the  avenue  and  the  south  terrace  of 
the  chateau.  From  the  plaisance  the  view  of 
the  whole,  with  the  south  fagade  of  the  chateai1 
surmounting  it,  was  very  beautiful. 

Mile,  de  Monsigny  set  her  little  coffee-cup  down 
upon  the  tray  and  crossed  to  the  outer  edge  of  the 
terrace,  where  she  stood  by  the  marble  balustrade, 
looking  down  through  the  wide  gap  in  the  trees 
to  the  moonlit  lowland. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  fountains  in  the 
moonlight?"  she  said  over  her  shoulder  to  Beres- 
ford.  "We  think  they  are  rather  fine."  There 
was  a  gasp  from  the  old  Mme.  de  Brissal,  and  a 
weak  appeal  as  the  two  left  the  terrace. 


'  They  went  down  the  curving  marble  steps  and  stood  by  the    little   oblong   pool 


MONSIGNY  47 

"  Not  too  far,  Isabeau,  ma  fille!  It — it  may  be 
damp,  la  bas." 

"  Pauvre  tante!"  laughed  the  girl  as  they  were 
crossing  the  avenue.  "She  is  dying  of  horror 
this  moment.  She  never  has  forgiven  father 
for  bringing  me  up  like  an  American  girl  instead 
of  a  French  one.  Father  says  that  French  girls 
are  fools,  and  I  believe  he  is  right.  All  the 
French  girls  I  know  are  fools,  poor  dears  !  Still, 
I'm  all  French  myself,  except  in  behaviour. 
I'm  all  Monsigny." 

They  went  down  the  curving  marble  steps,  and 
stood  by  the  little  oblong  pool  where  the  water 
splashed  and  purled  and  gurgled,  and  where  very 
substantial,  though  somewhat  moss-stained, 
Nereids  held  off  the  overardent  advances  of  their 
companions.  The  place  was  chill  and  smelled  of 
dampness  and  rank  vegetation  and  wet  earth. 

And  they  went  farther  down,  along  the  ter 
raced  flights  of  steps,  where  there  were  no  trees 
to  throw  a  gloom  over  them,  and  where  the 
smaller  fountains  tossed  a  lazy  shower  of  diamonds 
into  the  moonlight,  down  to  the  great  lagoon,  still 
and  black  as  a  lake  of  ink,  save  where  the  moon 
was  mirrored  upon  it  and  the  band  of  the  Milky 
Way  gleamed  dim  across  its  surface.  Frogs 
croaked  from  the  farther  side,  and  a  sleepy  rook 


48  MONSIGNY 

cawed  in  the  wood  beyond.  A  little  night  wind, 
soft  and  cool  and  laden  with  odours,  breathed  in 
their  faces,  and  filmed  from  time  to  time  the 
broad  surface  of  the  water  at  their  feet. 

Then,  at  last,  they  turned  to  look  back,  and  all 
the  vast  ascending  stretch  with  the  chateau  at  its 
crest  lay,  under  the  moonlight,  strange  and  beauti 
ful,  like  a  dream  picture — very  unreal,  for  there 
came  no  sound  of  any  sort  from  it,  nor  any  move 
ment,  nor  sign  of  life. 

Young  Beresford  drew  a  little  quick  breath  of 
amazement  and  delight.  It  was  his  first  proper 
view  of  the  chateau.  He  had  had  but  a  hasty 
glimpse  of  it  from  the  avenue  on  his  arrival  and, 
from  this  point  of  view,  and  in  the  moonlight,  it 
really  made  an  astonishingly  beautiful  picture. 

' '  That  is  magnificent ! ' '  said  he.  "  Magnificent ! 
You  should  always  give  people  their  first  view  of 
Chateau  Monsigny  by  moonlight,  mademoiselle. 
I  don't  know  how  fine  it  may  be  by  day,  but  this 
is  wonderful.  There  are  certain  things  that  are 
peculiarly  fine  at  night — with  a  moon,  that  is — 
the  Colosseum  in  Rome  begins  the  list,  I  believe. 
What  would  the  trippers  do  if  they  could  not 
write  guide-book  letters  about  the  Colosseum? 
And  there's  the  Parthenon  and  Chateau  Monsigny. 
I  insist  it's  the  finest  of  them  all — Chateau 


MONSIGNY  49 

Monsigny,"  he  repeated  thoughtfully.  "It's  a 
page  out  of  the  history  of  France,  isn't  it  ?  It  has 
bred  great  men.  It's  an  honourable  monument. 
And  all  yours,  mademoiselle — all  yours." 

The  girl  sighed,  shaking  her  head. 

"All  mine,"  she  said,  "though  it  seems  a  bit 
absurd.  I  think  I'm  a  little  glad  and  I  think  I'm 
a  little — no,  very  proud.  And  I  think  I'm  a  little 
scared,  maybe.  It's  so  much  bigger  than  I  am  ! 
It  has  been  so  important  for  so  long.  It  has  been 
such  a  page  of  history,  as  you  say.  Yes,  I  think 
I'm  a  little  scared.  I  am  the  last  Monsigny  alive. 
Wouldn't  you  be  frightened  just  the  least  bit  in 
the  world  if  you  were  I,  monsieur  ?  " 

Young  Beresford  laughed  gently. 

"Oh,  I'm  frightened  enough  though  I  am  only 
I,"  said  he.  "See  what  a  coward  I  am !" 

"Frightened,  monsieur?"  she  wondered.  "Of 
what,  then?" 

"Of  you,  mademoiselle,"  said  young  Beresford. 
"There's  a  lot  more  in  you  to  be  frightened  of 
than  there  is  in  Chateau  Monsigny." 

"Frightened  of  me  !"  she  scoffed.  "  I  am  per 
fectly  safe,  monsieur — very  gentle,  and  I  have 
never  in  my  life  bitten  anybody." 

"Ah,  now,  it  is  a  great  relief  to  hear  that,"  said 
young  Beresford.  "Still — I  am  afraid.  You  are 


50  MONSIGNY 

such  an  impossibly  important  heiress,  mademoi 
selle,  and  you  are  so  impossibly  beautiful !  It  all 
makes  such  a  barrier,  don't  you  know,  like  royal 
blood.  The  ordinary  chap  feels  as  if  he  oughtn't 
to  come  near  you  till  he's  sent  for,  nor  speak  till 
he's  spoken  to."  He  laughed  again  with  a  sort 
of  grave  mockery,  but  Isabeau  de  Monsigny 
turned  toward  him  frowning. 

"That  is  very  great  nonsense !"  she  said,  and 
Beresford  almost  laughed  again,  for  the  phrase 
sounded  so  like  the  Earl  or  Lord  Stratton. 

"  What  difference  does  it  make,"  she  demanded, 
"  whether  a  girl  is  an  heiress  or  not  ?  Nothing  sets 
up  such  a  barrier  as  you  speak  of  but  royal  blood, 
and  I've  none  of  that,  as  you  know.  And  if  a  girl 
happens  to  be — to  be — pretty,  what  of  that? 
The  humblest,  poorest  child  in  France  may  be 
prettier.  The  head  gardener  here  at  Monsigny 
has  a  daughter  who  is  the  most  beautiful  woman 
I  ever  saw — lovelier  than  one  of  his  roses.  Ah,  it 
is  all  great  nonsense!"  She  put  out  one  of  her 
hands  for  an  instant  and  touched  his  arm  as  she 
Stood  before  him  in  the  moonlight. 

"Don't  talk  of — barriers  and  such,  monsieur," 
she  said  very  low,  and  smiled  up  at  him  a  bit 
wistfully.  "I  have  been  looking  forward  so  to 
— to  your  coming  here !  We  do  not  have  many 


MONSIGNY  51 

people  here  at  Monsigny.  I  have  been  looking 
forward  to  such  a — good  time — like  Mentone. 
Are  you  going  to — spoil  it  all?" 

"Oh,  mademoiselle!"  cried  young  Beresford, 
starting  a  little  toward  her.  But  the  girl  drew 
back  quickly  with  a  nervous  laugh,  as  if  she  were 
afraid  of  what  he  might  say. 

"We — must  be  going  back,"  she  said.  "They 
will  think  we  are  lost — down  here.  Ah,  we  must 
get  back;  come  !"  And  young  Beresford,  breath 
ing  a  bit  quickly,  followed  her  up  the  many  flights 
of  steps,  with  a  certain  odd  bit  of  verse  running 
in  his  head — all  about  moonshine  and  madness. 

But  when  they  reached  the  top  of  the  bank, 
above  the  fountain,  she  paused  an  instant,  under 
the  sheltering  gloom  of  the  trees. 

"Oh,  monsieur!"  she  cried  in  a  little  low 
breathless  voice.  "  Monsieur,  I — would  not  have 
you — be  afraid!  Do  not  be — afraid!"  and  she 
ran  swiftly  from  him  into  the  moonlight  of  the 
avenue. 

On  the  great  terrace  only  Mrs.  Marlowe  was 
standing  beside  the  little  iron  coffee-table. 

"  My  dear  !"  she  called  as  Isabeau  came  up  the 
steps,  "poor  Mme.  de  Brissal  has  been  taken  ill 
— one  of  her  dizzy  spells,  Lord  Stratton  says. 
He  wished  me  to  ask  you  to  come  in  to  her  as  soon 


52  MONSIGNY 

as  you  had  returned.  I  hope  it  is  nothing 
serious?" 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,"  said  the  girl.  "Poor  aunt ! 
She  has  them  so  often.  They  pass  in  a  few 
minutes.  Yes,  I  will  go  in.  Is  father  there? 
You  will  excuse  me,  Monsieur  Beresford?" 

She  went  quickly  into  the  chateau,  and  young 
Beresford  was  left  face  to  face  with  the  other 
guest.  He  drew  a  long,  deep  breath. 

Mrs.  Marlowe  set  her  little  cup  down  upon  the 
tray. 

"Well,  Tony?  "said  she. 

"Well?"  said  the  Honourable  Mr.  Beresford. 


CHAPTER  IV 


CHAPTER   IV 

"HAVE  you  had  a  pleasant  walk,  Tony?"  she 
asked  with  a  queer  little  laugh. 

"Very!"  said  the  Honourable  Mr.  Beresford. 
He  had  leaned  back,  half  sitting,  against  the 
marble  balustrade  of  the  terrace  near  the  iron 
table  which  held  the  coffee-tray,  and  the  woman 
came  nearer,  standing  close  before  him,  so  that 
she  could  see  his  face  plainly  in  the  moonlight. 

"How  pleasant,  Tony?"  said  she  quietly. 

The  Honourable  Mr.  Beresford  lowered  his 

brows.  "That  does  not May  I  ask  if  that 

concerns  you?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  woman,  looking  into  his 
eyes.  "Yes,  it  concerns  me.  Oh,  it  concerns 
me  rather  intimately."  She  bent  her  head  for 
a  moment,  and  fingered  the  cups  and  spoons  and 
the  silver  things  on  the  tray  beside  her.  Then 
she  looked  up  again,  into  his  eyes. 

"It  was — very  strange  our  being  asked  here  at 
the  same  time,  wasn't  it?  I  didn't  know  you 
were  coming.  I  didn't  hear  of  it  until  after  I  had 
arrived  this  afternoon.  You  did  not  know  about 

55 


56  MONSIGNY 

me,  either,  did  you?  I  saw  you  didn't  when 
we  met  this  evening  in  the  hall.  You  have 
admirable  self-control,  Tony.  You  always  had 
— too  much  self-control,  almost.  I  should  have 
screamed,  I  think." 

"  It  was  rather  a  bad  moment,"  agreed  Beres- 
ford  gravely.  "  Still,"  he  went  on,  "  now  that  we 
are  here,  we  must  simply  make  the  best  of  it,  I 
suppose.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  see  no  reason 
whatever  for  making  the  situation  theatrical. 
We  shall  have  to  be  a  bit  careful  about  concealing 
the  fact  that  we — that  we  have  known  each  other 
before,  and  that  is  all,  I  should  think.  Of  course, ' ' 
he  said,  after  a  moment's  pause,  and  with  an 
obvious  effort,  "of  course,  if  you  greatly  prefer, 
I  will  go  away  to-morrow,  back  to  Paris,  on 
business  of  some  sort.  I  could  arrange  to  be 
telegraphed  for." 

The  woman  looked  up  eagerly.  "Oh,  if  you 

could  ! "  she  cried.  "  That  would  be  so  much 

No,  Tony,  no,  you  must  not  do  that.  I  won't  be 
so  seifish  as  to  allow  you  to  do  it.  No,  that  is 
out  of  the  question.  Besides — do  you  know,  I 
am  not  at  all  sure  that — that  I  am  not  glad  you 

are  here.  I It  has  been  a  very  long  time, 

hasn't  it  ?  Oh,  Tony,  Tony,  my  silly  heart  jumped 
when  I  saw  you,  there  in  the  hall !  You  looked 


MONSIGNY  57 

so — so  like  you  used  !"  She  took  a  little  turn  up 
the  terrace  and  back  again,  and  her  fingers  pulled 
and  twisted  at  the  lace  handkerchief  she  carried. 
Then  she  faced  him  again  with  a  sort  of  defiance 
in  her  bearing  and  in  her  eyes. 

"I — came  here  to  Monsigny  for  a  purpose, 
Tony,"  said  she  in  an  altered  voice. 

"Yes?"  said  Mr.  Beresford. 

"I.  came  here,"  said  she,  "to  marry  Lord 
Stratton — to  make  him  want  to  marry  me.  He 
does  not  know  yet  whether  he  wants  to  marry 
me  or  not.  In  a  week,  or  may  be  less,  he  will  ask 
me.  I  came  here  to  marry  Lord  Stratton." 

"Ah-h!"  said  Beresford,  very  low.  The 
woman  leaned  forward,  scanning  his  face  very 
anxiously,  as  if  she  sought  to  know  what  his  quiet 
exclamation  meant. 

"I  tell  you,"  she  cried  after  a  moment, 
"I  am  tired!  I  am  worn  out!  You  do  not 
know  what  I  have  been  through.  I  started  in 
so  bravely,  Tony !  I  thought  I  could  make  a 
new  life  for  myself.  I  changed  my  name  for  that 
of  a  cousin  who  had  died,  and  I  thought  I  could 
put  all  that — that  horror  and  disgrace  behind 
me.  But,  Tony,  Tony,  I  can't !  It  haunts  me 
day  and  night.  I  never  go  out  on  the  street,  or 
to  a  ball,  or  into  the  casino  at  Nice  or  at  Cannes, 


58  MONSIGNY 

or  to  the  Opera  in  Paris  without  quaking  in  a  cold 
fear  that  I  shall  come  face  to  face  with  some  one 
who  knew  me  before — before  the — affair ;  some  one 
who  will  call  me  by  the  old  name,  who  will  let 
the  people  I  am  with  know  who  I  was.  Some 
times  I  do  see  them,  the  people  who  would  know, 

and  then — then Oh,  Tony,  the  dreadful 

panic — the  miserable  subterfuges  to  get  away  out 
of  their  sight  into  safety !  Do  you  know  what 
Lord  Stratton  said  to  me  yesterday  ?  I  was  ask 
ing  him  if  one  might  forget  troubles — an  unhappy 
life — and  make  a  new  happiness  for  oneself,  and 
he  said  that  one  might  forget  all  save  sin  and  love. 
Sin  and  love !  Oh,  it  isn't  true.  It  isn't  true ! 
One  may  forget !  I  tell  you  I've  a  right  to  forget. 
It  is  monstrous  that  one's  whole  life  should  be 
ruined,  ruined  just  for  one  little  year !  I  tell 
you " 

"Wait!"  said  Beresford  sharply.  "Wait! 
What  do  you  mean  by  '  sin '  and  '  one  little  year '  ? 
Do  you  mean  there  was  any  truth  in  what  was 
charged  at  the  time  of  the  action  ?  Do  you  mean 
that  Travers  had  a  right  to  his  divorce?" 

The  woman  fell  back  a  step  away  from  him, 
stumbling  a  bit,  and  her  hands  flew  to  her  mouth. 
Her  eyes  were  very  wide  and  she  seemed  not  to 
breathe  at  all, 


MONSIGNY  59 

"No,  no!"  she  cried  hoarsely.  "No,  Tony! 
No,  I  say  !  How  can  you  ask  such  terrible  things  ? 
You  know  there  was  no  truth  in  it  at  all.  You 
must  know  it !  What  did  I  say  ?  I  never  said 
that  I  had  sinned.  Tony,  don't  look  at  me  like 
that !  Can't  you  understand  how  I  feel  about 
it?  You  know  what  the  world  thinks  about  a 
woman  who  has  been  divorced.  She  is  an  outcast 
ever  after.  Is  it  so  strange  that  I  should  come 
to  think  the  same  of  the  Mrs.  Travers  who  is  dead  ? 
She  is  dead,  Tony — dead  forever,  but  her  ghost  is 
haunting  me  always,  till  I  am  half  mad.  I  say. 
you  do  not  know  what  I  have  been  through. 
Why,  I  have  even  been  poor.  I  have  to  contrive 
wretched  little  makeshifts  to  dress  decently,  to 
make  an  appearance.  I  can  bear  it  no  longer, 
I  tell  you." 

"You  might  have  come  to  me  for  that  part  of 
it,  as  well  as  for  the  other,"  said  Beresford,  and 
his  voice  softened. 

"Ah,  Tony  ! "  she  cried.  "  I  could  come  to  you 
for  neither.  I  had  a  little  remnant  of  wretched 
pride  left  me,  and  I  made  out,  somehow.  Had  I 
not  done  enough  injury  as  it  was?  You  were 
dragged  into  that — that  disgrace,  and  your  name 
was  sullied  along  with  mine.  I  know  how  you 
felt  the  injustice  of  it,  Tony,  You  are  the  sort 


60  MONSIGNY 

of  man  to  feel  such  things.  Only,  the  world  is 
more  lenient  with  a  man's  honour  than  with  a 
woman's.  They  have  forgotten  your  part  in  it 
already,  but  they  will  never  forget  Mrs.  Travers." 

"  If  you  had  done  as  I  asked  at  the  time,"  said 
Beresford,  "you  might  have  been  spared  all  this." 

"Yes,  Tony,"  said  she,  "if  I  had  married  you 
I  might  have  been  spared  it  all.  Very  often  I 
have  wished  that  I  had  married  you.  We  should 
not  have  been  happy,  though.  You  did  not  love 
me,  Tony.  You  offered  to  marry  me  because,  in 
the  world's  eyes,  it  was  you  who  had  made  the 
divorce  possible."  She  put  out  her  two  hands 
upon  his  breast  as  she  stood  before  him,  and  her 
face  bore  a  little  wistful,  tender  smile,  in  the 
moonlight. 

"I  wish  you  had  loved  me  then,  Tony,  when 
you  asked  me  to  marry  you,"  said  she.  "You 
had  loved  me  a  little  before,  hadn't  you — long 
before?  But  you  would  not  speak.  You  tried 
to  hide  it  because  I  was  another  man's  wife.  I 
didn't  appreciate  your  love  then.  Ah,  but  I'd 
have  treasured  it  later!" 

"Do  you — do  you  care  for  Lord  Stratton?" 
asked  Beresford,  and  his  voice  was  still  gentle 
and  low. 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.     "No,"  said  she. 


MONSIGNY  61 

"No,  I  don't  care  for  him — not  in  the  way  you 
mean.  I  don't  love  him,  but  I  am  very  tired, 
Tony,  and  poor  and  fagged  out.  I'm  a  ship  that 
has  had  a  stormy  voyage,  and  I'm  sick  for  a  port. 
He  would  be  kind  to  me — very  kind  and  tender 
and  indulgent.  I  should  pass  my  days  con 
tentedly,  I  think — happily,  even.  Ah,  Tony,  how 
I  long  for  peace,  security,  a  good  strong  arm 
to  lean  on !  I  should  make  him  a  good  wife, 
honestly  I  should." 

"And  you'll  tell  him?"  said  he.  But  the  fear 
came  into  her  face,  and  hurried  her  breath  once 
more. 

"Oh,  no,  no!  Oh,  no,  Tony!"  she  cried. 
"Not  that!  No,  I  couldn't  tell  him.  Do  you 
think  I  should  tell  him?  No,  I  could  not. 
Listen !  It  would  only  distress  him — make  him 
unhappy.  Mrs.  Travers  is  dead.  Why  dig  her 
up  again?  No  one  would  ever  know.  I  swear 
to  you  that  I  would  make  him  a  good  wife. 
What  does  it  matter  who  I  was  five  years  ago? 
You'll  not  tell  him  yourself?  You'll  not  ruin 
me,  Tony?" 

"No,"  said  Beresford,  "I  shall  not  tell  him. 
You  know  that.  It  is  not  my  affair.  Besides, 
it  is  not  as  if  you  had  been,  in  the  least,  in  fault 
at  the  time  of  the — five  years  ago.  A  great 


62  MONSIGNY 

wrong  was  done  you.  If  you  choose  absolutely 
to  bury  it,  it  is  no  affair  of  mine." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Marlowe,  looking  over  the 
tree  tops  to  the  star-strewn  sky;  "no,  it  is  not  as 
if  I  had — been  in— fault." 

Then,  after  a  little  silence,  she  came  and  sat 
beside  him  on  the  coping  of  the  marble 
balustrade,  with  her  hands  clasped  upon 
her  knees  and  her  face  turned  up  to  the  sky. 
There  was  a  little  soft  reminiscent  smile  at  her 
lips. 

"Do  you  know,  Tony,"  said  she,  "it  wasn't  all 
so  bad,  in  those  days,  was  it  ?  In  spite  of  all  the 
horror  and  the  shame  and  the  disgrace,  it  wasn't 
all  so  bad.  I  had  you.  It  was  very  good  to  be 
able  to  lay  everything  upon  your  shoulders,  to 
feel  how  strong  and  cool  and  sure  you  were,  to 
know  that  you  would  do  all  that  a  man  might 
do,  and  that  you  would  never  save  yourself  by 
hurting  me.  You  held  your  tongue  about  many 
things  to  save  me,  when  by  speaking  you  could 
have  cleared  your  own  name,  didn't  you,  Tony? 
Ah,  no,  it  wasn't  all  bad !  Sometimes,  since, 
when  I've  been  feeling  very  blue,  and  very 
tired  out,  and  very  lonely,  I've  wished  those 
days  were  back,  terrible  as  they  were,  just 
because  they  held  you." 


MONSIGNY  63 

She  turned  her  head  away  from  him  with  a 
nervous  laugh. 

"You'd  be  surprised,  Tony,"  said  she,  "if  I 
could  tell  you  how  I  felt  this  evening  when  I  saw 
you  again  after  so  long.  It  brought  back  a 
queer  great  rush  of  recollections  and — and  things, 
a  queer  rush  of  them.  Did  it  mean — nothing  to 
you,  when  you  saw  me — nothing  but  surprise? 
Had  you  forgotten — oh,  everything  save  that  I 
brought  a  stain  upon  you?  You — you  cared — 
a  little,  once,  didn't  you?  Had  you  quite  for 
gotten,  Tony?" 

He  made  no  answer,  and  Mrs.  Marlowe  sat  a 
long  time  silent,  pulling  and  twisting  at  the  bit 
of  lace  in  her  hands. 

"She's — a  very  beautiful  girl,  Tony,"  said  she 
at  last. 

"Yes,"  said  Beresford  gravely.  "She  is  a 
very  beautiful  girl.  She  is  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  Europe,  I  suppose." 

"And  very  rich,"  pursued  Mrs.  Marlowe. 

"And  very  rich,"  he  agreed. 

" Shall  you  marry  her,  Tony?"  said  the  woman 
in  a  low  voice. 

"That  is  an  absurd  question,"  replied  Beres 
ford.  "I  know  Mile,  de  Monsigny  very  slightly. 
I  saw  her  for  a  few  days  in  Mentone,  last  winter, 


64  MONSIGNY 

and  I  have  seen  her  for  part  of  one  evening  here. 
Your  thoughts  travel  far  ahead." 

"  Still,  you  would  give  your  soul  to  marry  her," 
said  she.  "Have  I  not  watched  you  with  her? 
And  she  cares  for  you,  too.  I  could  see  that  when 
she  looked  at  you  during  dinner.  It  is  in  her 
face  and  in  her  voice." 

Mrs.  Marlowe  rose  suddenly  from  her  seat, 
and  fell  to  walking  up  and  down,  in  the  moonlight, 
with  her  hands  pressed  to  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  I  am  a  foolish  old  woman,  Tony!"  she 
cried  in  a  low  voice.  "And  I  am  very  nervous, 
and  I  am  a  little  mad,  I  think,  for  I  cannot  bear 
to  see  you  with  that  girl.  I  cannot  bear  to  see 
you  look  at  her  as  you  do,  and  to  see  her  flush 
and  smile,  and  look  into  your  eyes.  I  cannot  bear 
to  hear  her  lower  her  voice  when  she  speaks  to 
you,  as  a  woman  does  for  only  one  man  in  the 
world.  Do  you  think  I  am  mad?  I — I  cannot 
bear  it !  Listen  !  You  told  me,  five  years  ago, 
that  the  rest  of  your  life  was  mine  to  do  with  as 
I  liked.  You  said  that,  by  some  horrible  series 
of  blunders,  my  name  had  been  blackened  forever, 
and  that  you  were  responsible  for  it,  innocent 
though  you  were.  You  offered  to  marry  me. 
You  said  you  would  never  marry  any  one  else. 
Oh,  are  you  going  to  break  your  word  now?" 


MONSIGNY  65 

The  Honourable  Mr.  Beresford  rose  to  his  feet, 
and  his  face  was  very  white  in  the  moonlight — • 
very  white  and  drawn  and  tense. 

"  I  have  never  broken  my  word  in  all  my  life," 
said  he.  "I  offered,  in  all  good  faith,  to  marry 
you  five  years  ago,  and  you  refused  and  sent  me 
away.  I  offer  it  again,  in  all  good  faith.  It  was 
through  me,  however  innocently,  that  your  life 
was  wrecked,  and  to  give  you  my  life  is  the  least 
I  can  do.  I  will  marry  you  now,  if  you  wish, 
though  you  know  that  I  do  not  love  you.  I  had 
no  thought  that  you  wished  to  hold  me  to  my  old 
promise,  for  we  have  seen  nothing  of  each  other 
in  so  long  a  time,  and  you  had  refused  me  once. 
But  wait !"  He  turned  upon  her  with  a  puzzled 
frown.  "How  can  you  wish  to  hold  me  to  my 
promise  if  you  mean  to  marry  Lord  Stratton  ?  I 
am  afraid  I  do  not  understand." 

The  woman  threw  out  her  arms  with  a  little 
helpless  gesture. 

"Oh,  Tony,  Tony  !"  she  cried.  "  Am  I  a  man, 
to  feel  and  reason  by  logic  ?  Have  I  not  told  you 
that  I  was  a  foolish  old  woman,  and  nervous  and 
overtired  and  a  little  mad?  No,  no,  Tony,  I 
must  not  marry  you.  We  should  not  be  happy 
together,  you  and  I.  We  were  never  made  to 
be  together  long,  and  you — you  don't — care  any 


66  MONSIGNY 

more.  No,  I  must  marry  Lord  Stratton,  but — 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  with  another  woman. 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  you  loving  her.  You 
will  never  understand,  dear  boy,  because  you  are 
only  a  man.  Oh,  yes,  lam  a  little  mad.  Don't 
mind  me.  Don't  listen  to  me.  I'm  mad  and 
foolish,  and — and  jealous,  a  jealous  old  woman 
who — who  can't  altogether  forget.  Tony,  Tony, 
a  jealous  old  woman  !" 

And  just  then  Lord  Stratton  came  out  upon 
the  terrace. 

"Mme.  de  Brissal  is  much  better,"  said  he. 
"She  has  these  spells  of  giddiness  rather  often. 
They  are  not  dangerous.  I  am  very  sorry  to 
have  had  to  leave  you.  Isabeau  will  be  out  in 
a  moment." 


CHAPTER   V 


WHEN  Beresford  came  down  the  next  morning 
there  was  no  one  in  the  breakfast  room.  One  of 
the  servants  told  him  that  Monseigneur  and  Milor 
de  Strope  had  just  finished,  and  that  mademoiselle 
had  breakfasted  very  early — before  any  one  else. 
Madame  and  Mme.  Marlowe  were  not  yet  down. 

He  breakfasted  alone,  and  then  went  out  into 
the  sunlight.  The  air  was  soft  and  fresh  and 
cool,  and  full  of  all  sweet  summer  odours — roses 
from  the  gardens,  and  mignonette  and  heliotrope 
and  geraniums — the  acrid  scent  of  firs  from  the 
grove  which  hid  the  avenue  on  its  way  to  the 
gates,  damp  earth  and  growing  things  from  the 
fountains  and  the  lagoon  below;  and,  over  it  all, 
the  wonderful  clean  freshness  of  dew  not  yet  dried 
by  the  mounting  sun.  Birds  cheeped  and  sang 
and  rustled  among  the  trees  or  under  the  shrub 
bery,  and  down  beyond  the  stables  somewhere 
a  cow  lowed. 

The  Earl  of  Strope  was  coming  up  the  avenue 
from  the  stables.  He  was  in  breeches  and  an  old 

69 


70  MONSIGNY 

shooting  jacket,  and  he  wore  a  very  ancient  deer 
stalker's  cap. 

"Morning!"  said  he.  "Shocking  hour  to  get 
up  !  When  I  was  of  your  age  I  used  always  to  be 
up  by  six." 

"Yes?"  said  young  Beresford  politely.  "I 
think  I  remember  my  father  telling  me  something 
of  the  sort  about  himself.  He  used  to  tell  it 
me  very  often.  I  dare  say  that  when  I'm 
past  middle  age  I  shall  say  the  same  thing 
to  all  the  young  men  I  know.  It  must  be  a 
great  comfort  to  look  back  upon  an  exemplary 
youth." 

The  old  gentleman  laughed  and  worked  his 
great  white  eyebrows  up  and  down. 

"You  have  no  reverence  for  age,"  said  he. 
"You're  like  all  the  other  young  people  nowa 
days.  Only  you  are  stronger.  I  really  should 
like  to  know  which  of  us  is  the  stronger.  We  shall 
have  a  good  opportunity  to  find  out  here.  You 
must  stop  a  long  time.  Would  you  like  to  come 
down  to  the  dairy?  I  have  a  calf  which  I  am 
lifting  each  day  with  my  arms  to  test  the  truth 
of  the  old  adage.  They  say,  you  know,  that  if 
you  lift  a  calf  each  day  from  the  time  it  is  bom, 
you  should  be  able  to  lift  it  when  it  is  a  cow.  It 
would  be  interesting  at  least  to  find  out  when  one 


MONSIGNY  71 

would  reach  one's  limit.  My  calf  is  quite  a  heifer 
now  but  I  still  can  lift  it." 

They  went  down  the  smooth,  well-kept  drive, 
past  the  stables  where  a  pair  of  English  grooms 
were  polishing  harness  in  the  sunlight,  and  through 
the  dairy  houses  to  a  small  paddock  where  two 
or  three  half-grown  calves  stood  fighting  flies  in 
a  patch  of  shade.  The  pasture  beyond  was 
dotted  red  and  white  with  grazing  cattle. 

"That  is  the  one,"  said  the  Earl,  pointing  to 
a  white  heifer  of  mild  aspect.  He  put  a  hand  in 
the  pocket  of  his  jacket,  and  the  heifer  came  up 
to  him  expectantly. 

"I  should  have  thought  it  impossible  for  any 
man  to  lift  that  animal  in  his  arms,"  said  Beres- 
ford.  The  old  Earl  laughed. 

"  I  shall  prove  that  it  is  not,"  said  he,  giving  the 
heifer  a  bit  of  sugar.  He  stepped  to  the  animal's 
side  and  put  both  arms  under  its  body,  planting 
his  strong  feet  well  beneath  it.  Then  he  lifted 
it  till  its  hoofs  hung  several  inches  from  the 
ground.  The  heifer  turned  a  mildly  protesting 
face  and  licked  his  ear  with  a  sugary  tongue. 

"By  Jove!"  said  young  Beresford.  "I'll  do 
that  or  die  in  the  attempt.  Will  you  give  the 
poor  beast  some  more  sugar?" 

"I  hope  you  will  fail,"  said  the  old  gentle- 


72  MONSIGNY 

man,  chuckling.  "I  shall  tell  everybody  in  the 
house." 

Beresford  tugged  desperately  at  the  heifer  and, 
much  to  his  surprise,  duplicated  the  Earl's  feat. 

"Haven't  you  something  really  difficult?"  he 
inquired  loftily.  "This  is  mere  child's  play.  I 
wish,  though,  that  when  the  beast  is  full  grown 
and  you  are  still  lifting  it  you  would  ask  me  down 
here  to  look  on.  I  should  thoroughly  enjoy  seeing 
you  embrace  a  large  white  cow.  There  is  a 
certain  humour  in  the  picture." 

The  Earl  growled. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  woman  who's 
stopping  here?"  he  demanded  abruptly,  as  they 
were  returning  through  the  dairy— "that  Mrs. 
Marlowe?" 

"What  do  I  think  of  her?"  repeated  Beresford 
defensively.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  I've  not  had 
much  of  a  chance  to  judge,  have  I  ?  She  is 
undeniably  a  handsome  woman,  and  I  should 
fancy  she  might  be  an  entertaining  one.  Why 
do  you  ask?" 

"I  don't  like  her,"  said  the  Earl,  with  his 
accustomed  frankness.  "She  has  frightened 
eyes.  She  has  done  something  bad,  sometime  or 
other.  And  she's  afraid  of  being  found  out." 

Beresford  laughed. 


MONSIGNY  73 

"What  a  detective  you  would  make,  sir!" 
said  he.  "Now,  I  dare  say  the  poor  woman 
has  merely  had  an  unhappy  life.  Grief  often 
makes  a  woman's  eyes  look  like  that.  After 
all,  the  mere  fact  that  she  is  a  widow  is  reason 
enough." 

"It's  not  grief,"  declared  the  old  gentleman 
stubbornly.  "  It  is  fear.  I  know  fear  when  I  see 
it.  And  what's  more,  I  think  she  means  to  marry 
my  son.  That  would  be  a  great  folly." 

"It  might  be  a  great  happiness,"  submitted 
Beresford. 

' '  A  great  folly, ' '  repeated  the  Earl.  ' '  The  silly 
boy  is  afraid  of  being  lonely  in  the  event  of 
Isabeau's  marrying.  As  if  he  would  not  still  have 
me !  I  don't  like  the  woman.  I  should  oppose, 
with  all  my  strength,  any  such  notion  as  his 
marrying  her.  I  don't  wish  him  to  marry  again, 
anyhow.  There  is  no  need  of  it.  Alfred,  my 
other  son,  has  two  boys.  The  succession  is 
assured.  I  need  Richard  to  bear  me  company. 
He's  a  fool  to  think  of  marrying  !"  And  the  old 
gentleman  shook  his  head  angrily,  and  shrugged 
his  great  shoulders,  as  if  he  would  have  done  with 
a  disagreeable  topic.  "I  am  going  down,  to  the 
lagoon  to  see  about  replacing  a  bit  of  loose  stone," 
he  said.  "  Will  you  come  ?  " 


74  MONSIGNY 

"Why — er,  thanks,"  said  young  Beresford. 
"  Thanks,  I  should  like  to  go,  but  I — I  think  I  see 
mademoiselle  up  in  the  rose  gardens,  yonder. 
Perhaps  I'd  best  just  speak  a  word  to  her,  and 
join  you  a  bit  later." 

"Oh,"  said  the  Earl.  "Yes,  yes,  of  course! 
Of  course  !"  But  he  did  not  at  once  start  away. 
He  hesitated  a  moment,  frowning  absently  under 
his  great  white  brows. 

"Old  men  have  strange  notions  from  time  to 
time,"  he  said  at  last.  "Sometimes  they  feel 
coming  events  rather  oddly.  I  have  a  strong 
feeling  that  something  is  going  to  happen  here  at 
Monsigny — that  there  are  events  of  moment 
afoot.  I  am  glad  you  are  with  us.  You  are  more 
of  a  man  than  most  men.  Yes,  I  think  something 
out  of  common  is  going  to  happen,  and  I  believe 
that  woman  will  have  a  part  in  it."  Then  he 
turned  away,  and  went  down  the  long  slope 
toward  the  lagoon,  his  great  shoulders  swinging 
as  he  walked  and  his  hair  gleaming  white  under 
the  old  deer-stalker's  cap. 

Beresford  stood  looking  after  him  thoughtfully. 

"I  should  say  that  you  are  very  likely  right, 
sir,"  said  he,  under  his  breath.  "  The  air  is  a  bit 
thick,  and  air  has  a  way  of  clearing  itself.  I 
wonder "  He  had  a  momentary  impulse  to 


MONSIGNY  75 

follow  the  old  gentleman  and,  in  spite  of  his 
promise  of  the  night  before,  tell  him  the  truth 
as  he  knew  it  regarding  Mrs.  Marlowe  and  that 
lady's  unfortunate  past,  and  his  own  connection 
with  the  affair.  He  saw  that  the  Earl  was  very 
decidedly  opposed  to  any  idea  of  his  son's  marriage 
to  the  woman,  and  he  foresaw  trouble  and  possibly 
unfortunate  disclosures  if  it  should  come  to  a 
clash.  But  the  habit  of  keeping  his  word,  even 
in  the  smallest  matters,  and  a  natural  distaste  for 
meddling,  held  him  silent.  He  turned  about 
toward  the  garden  with  a  little  sigh.  ' ' '  Something 
is  going  to  happen  here  at  Monsigny,"  he 
repeated.  "I  should  say  that  you  were  very 
likely  right,  sir."  And  he  shook  his  head 
gloomily. 

The  rose  gardens  lay  to  the  west  of  the  chateau. 
There  were  hedges  of  box  and  of  laurel  about 
them,  and  down  at  the  farther  end,  for  the  great 
rectangle  sloped  gently  away,  were  rows  of  glass 
hothouses  for  forcing  the  flowers  in  winter  and 
spring.  On  the  side  opposite  to  the  avenue  there 
was  a  little  rustic  summer-house,  open  to  the  air 
but  masked  about  by  lilac  trees,  and  a  row  of  these 
lilac  trees  stood  all  along  the  high  stone  wall  that 
shut  out  the  cold  winds  from  the  north. 

Beresford  found  a  gap  in  the  hedge  and  made 


76  MONSIGNY 

his  way  in  between  two  of  the  long  straight  rows 
of  bushes  that  drooped  under  dew-wet  rose 
buds.  The  air  was  heavy  with  fragrance — 
almost  stupefying.  Some  one  in  a  soft  white 
gown  that  clung  to  her  when  she  moved — under  a 
great  drooping  white  hat  that  shaded  all  her 
beautiful  head — stood  still,  up  to  the  waist  in 
roses. 

"  Bon  jour,  monsieur,"  said  some  one,  very  low, 
and  made  a  little  courtesy  down  into  the  roses. 

"Bon  jour,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  Honourable 
Ashton  Beresford.  "  Do  I  intrude  ? " 

" Du  tout,  monsieur!"  said  she.  "We  are 
honoured,  the  roses  and  I.  What  have  you  been 
doing  with  my  poor  old  grandpere,  monsieur?" 

"I  have  been  lifting  a  calf,"  said  Beresford. 
"A  white  one."  There  were  choked  sounds  under 
the  big  hat. 

"It  is  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  he  said  with 
dignity.  "  It  is  a  feat.  You  couldn't  have  lifted 
the  calf,"  he  boasted. 

"Me?  I  couldn't  lift  even  a  wee  little  calf," 
confessed  the  girl  humbly.  "It  seems  such  an 
odd  way  to  spend  a  morning,  though — lifting 
calves.  Do  you  always  do  it  ?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  he;  "but  your  poor  old 
grandpere  does,  so  you  needn't  be  proud," 


MONSIGNY  77 

"Ah,  well,  I  dare  say  the  calf  likes  it,"  she  con 
ceded  handsomely.  "I  should  have  loved  to  see 
you,  though!"  And  she  made  further  choked 
sounds. 

Beresford  rudely  pushed  aside  the  rose-bushes 
and  came  into  the  path  where  she  was  standing. 
She  looked  up  into  his  face  and  the  blood  beat 
at  his  temples. 

"I'm  not — so  afraid  in  the  sunshine,"  said  he 
to  the  purple  eyes.  Then  he  was  granted  an 
extensive  view  of  the  top  of  the  big  white  hat. 
It  was  really  a  very  handsome  hat — as  hats  go. 

"You — you  have  not  said  how  you  liked  my 
roses,"  ventured  the  girl,  after  awhile. 

"Roses?"  said  he.  "Roses?  How  is  one  to 
say  that  one  likes  roses  ?  They  are  very  beautiful 
roses — I  dare  say  they  are  very  proper  ones.  I 
don't  know  anything  about  roses.  The  only 
thing  I  can  say  of  them  is  that  they  make  the 
properest  sort  of  a  setting  for  you.  What  do  you 
want  to  talk  about  roses  for?"  he  demanded 
irritably.  "I  wanted  to  talk  about  you." 

"Well,  I  didn't!"  said  Isabeau  de  Monsigny 
with  a  certain  haste. 

"What  was  it  you — wished  to  say  about — 
about  me?"  she  inquired  presently  of  Mr. 
Beresford's  back. 


78  MONSIGNY 

"I've  forgotten,"  said  he  brutally.  "It makes 
no  difference,  anyhow.  You  weren't  interested." 
"Oh,  very  well!"  said  the  girl,  and  cruelly 
maltreated  an  innocent  rosebud  that  had  never 
done  her  any  harm.  Then,  in  a  moment,  she  met 
Beresford's  eyes  and  they  both  laughed — con- 
sumedly — for  they  were  young  and  the  morning 
was  a  cup  of  wine  and  God  was  in  His  heaven 
and  all  was  right  with  their  world. 

Beresford  threw  back  his  head  and  drew  a  long 
deep  breath  of  the  rose-laden  air.  A  little  flush 
came  up  over  his  cheeks. 

"I  take  it  back!"  he  cried.  "I  lied.  Oh, 
mademoiselle,  I  lied !  I  hadn't  forgotten.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you —  His  eyes,  looking  into 

hers,  shifted  a  trifle  and  went  beyond  her,  over 
her  shoulder  to  the  upper  end  of  the  gardens, 
where  a  strip  of  green  turf,  raised  in  a  narrow 
terrace,  lay  close  under  the  walls  of  the  chateau. 

"Ah-h!"  said  he,  and  at  his  tone  Isabeau 
raised  her  eyes  to  his  face  and  followed  the  direc 
tion  of  his  gaze. 

"Ah  !"  said  the  girl;  and  her  tone,  like  his,  had 
changed.  "There  is  Mrs.  Marlowe,"  she  said 
reluctantly.  ' '  I  suppose  I  should  ask  her  to 
come  down  and  see  the  gardens,  shouldn't  I  ? 
One  must  be  polite  to  one's  guests,  mustn't  one  ?" 


MONSIGNY  79 

"  I  don't  fancy  you  need  bother  just  now,"  said 
Beresford.  "Lord  Stratton  is  coming  out  to 
join  her." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  of  course,"  said  the  girl  slowly. 
"  Father  is  with  her,  isn't  he?"  And  she  looked, 
watching  the  two,  as  she  had  looked  the  evening 
before  when  she  watched  them  across  the  dinner 
table — a  bit  puzzled  and  a  bit  thoughtful  and  a 
bit  disturbed. 

"  Shall  we  go  over  to  the  little  summer-house  ? " 
she  said  presently.  ' '  The  sun  is  growing  just  a  bit 
warm  here.  It  is  cool  in  the  summer-house,  and 
shady  and  comfortable,  and  one  is  higher  up. 
One  can  see  all  the  gardens." 

So  they  crossed  over  between  the  straight  ranks 
of  rose-bushes,  to  the  other  side  of  the  garden, 
where  the  tiny  rustic  summer-house  stood  among 
its  lilac  trees,  under  the  cool  shade  of  the  wall. 
And  Beresford  said  no  word  as  they  went,  for  the 
sight  of  the  two  people  up  by  the  house  had  quite 
wrecked  his  mood,  and  had  started  his  thoughts 
along  unpleasant  channels.  He  thought  of  what 
the  old  Earl  had  said  so  seriously  but  a  few 
moments  before,  and  he  thought  of  the  past 
evening,  and  of  how  Mrs.  Marlowe  had  recalled 
his  old  promise  and  had  broken  out  in  a  fit  of 
woman's  jealousy  because  he  had  talked  with 


8o  MONSIGNY 

Isabeau.  It  could  not  be  that  she  seriously 
meant  to  hold  him  to  his  word — that  she  meant 
still  to  demand  his  allegiance.  Her  marriage 
to  Lord  Stratton,  provided  it  went  forward,  must 
free  him  from  all  that.  But  what  if  she  should 
not  marry  the  Viscount?  What  if  the  old  Earl 
should  be  able  to  prevent  it,  or  she  should  deter 
mine  not  to  go  on  with  it  ?  What  if  any  one  of 
a  thousand  obstacles  should  materialise?  He 
would  still  be  bound  then  !  He  had  given  her  his 
life.  What  if  she  should  refuse  to  give  it  back 
to  him? 

He  clenched  his  teeth  as  he  walked  between  the 
ranks  of  roses  and  said  fiercely  to  himself  that 
this  was  all  preposterous  nonsense.  She  could 
never  take  such  an  advantage.  She  was  not  that 
sort.  What  if  she  had  given  way  to  a  little 
momentary  spasm  of  jealousy — she  had  laughed 
at  it  herself.  No,  she  was  not  that  sort. 

But,  though  he  reassured  himself  very  scorn 
fully  as  his  mind  went  over  the  thing,  he  could  not 
rid  himself  of  an  odd  discomfort — a  premonition 
of  danger  to  come.  It  was  so,  he  thought,  that 
the  Earl  must  have  felt  when  he  said  something 
was  going  to  happen  at  Monsigny — something  out 
of  the  common.  And  Beresford  shook  his  head 
with  a  little  sigh,  for  he  knew  that  his  happy, 


MONSIGNY  81 

contented  mood  of  the  morning  was  gone  beyond 
recall.  A  film  had  come  over  the  sunlight  and 
the  rose  gardens. 

There  were  chairs  in  the  little  summer-house, 
fashioned  from  gnarled  and  twisted  branches, 
and  a  small  rough  table  placed  at  one  side.  They 
sat  down  by  the  railing  and  looked  out  over  the 
splendidly  kept  gardens  with  their  hundreds  of 
rose-bushes  and,  farther  down  toward  the  hot 
houses,  their  beds  and  borders  of  other  flowers 
— mignonettes  and  fuchsias  and  pinks  and  blazing 
geraniums.  A  vine  of  climbing  rose  had  mounted 
the  side  of  the  summer-house  and  clung  to  the  roof- 
posts,  heavy  with  pink  blossoms,  and  a  spray  of 
its  buds  hung  by  the  girl's  head,  almost  touching 
her  hair.  The  colour,  Beresford  noted,  was 
exactly  the  colour  of  her  cheek,  and  the  texture 
was  like  it,  too.  He  thought  of  telling  her  so, 
but  it  seemed  a  very  silly  thing  to  say,  even 
though  it  was  true — very  silly  and  very  young,  he 
thought ;  the  sort  of  thing  that  one  of  the  under- 
grooms  might  say  to  the  gardener's  pretty 
daughter  of  whom  Isabeau  had  spoken  the 
evening  before.  He  was  quite  out  of  humour 
with  compliments. 

The  girl's  eyes  still  rested  upon  the  two 
people  up  under  the  walls  of  the  chateau,  and 


82  MONSIGNY 

they  were  still  thoughtful  and  a  bit  disturbed. 
When  the  two  rounded  the  corner  of  the  west 
wing  and  disappeared,  she  turned  about  to  Mr. 
Beresford  with  a  little  sigh. 

"I  suppose  it  is  very,  very  rude  and  very  im 
proper  not — not  quite  to — like  one  of  one's  own 
guests,  isn't  it?"  she  inquired  deprecatingly. 

"Very !"  said  he  by  way  of  encouragement. 

"And  yet,"  she  went  on,  "do  you  know,  I  can't 
quite  like  her — Mrs.  Marlowe,  you  know.  I  never 
could,  not  even  in  Nice.  There's  something  about 
her — oh,  I  don't  know."  She  looked  away  over 
the  gardens,  but  Beresford  could  see  that  the 
colour  heightened  the  least  bit  in  her  cheek. 
"Father — likes  her — I  think.  Perhaps  I  don't 
know  her  well  enough — I  think  it's  something 
about  her  eyes." 

"Ah!"  said  young  Beresford,  "that  is  very 
odd." 

"Odd?  How?"  she  demanded,  turning  back 
to  him.  ' '  What  do  you  mean  ?  How  is  it  odd  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  he,  "nothing  at  all.  I 
was  thinking  of  what  some  one  else  had  said 
about  a  woman's  eyes.  Yes,  as  you  say,  Lord 
Stratton  seems  to  like  her.  I — noticed  last 
evening  at  dinner.  Well,  she  is  handsome,  is  she 
not?  And  she  is  probably  very  entertaining." 


MONSIGNY  83 

The  girl  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  certain 
diffident  curiosity. 

"Had  you  ever  met  her  before  last  evening?" 
she  asked. 

Beresford  hesitated  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

"I  do  not  remember,"  he  said  carefully,  "ever 
to  have  met  any  Mrs.  Marlowe  before.  Of  course 
one  meets  no  end  of  people  and  quite  forgets 
them.  It  is  not  a  common  name,  I  should  think, 
though  hardly  extraordinary.  Why  do  you 
ask?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  the  girl,  looking  away 
again.  "  Last  evening,  when  you  were  presented, 
I  thought — just  for  a  moment,  you  know — oh, 
nothing,  nothing  at  all !  Let  us  talk  about 
something  else.  I  really  must  not  sit  here  dis 
cussing  one  of  our  own  guests.  What  shall 
we  talk  of,  monsieur?" 

"There  is  you,"  suggested  Mr.  Beresford,  dis 
passionately. 

"No,"  said  she,  shaking  her  head,  "I  will  not 
be  talked  about.  We  shall  talk  about  you.  Why 
have  you  turned  all  at  once  so  grave  and  stern 
and — and  bitter-looking,  monsieur,  with  your 
lips  all  in  a  hard  little  straight  little  line — so ! 
A  few  moments  ago,  down  among  the  roses,  you 
were — you  were — different." 


84  MONSIGNY 

"Ah,  mademoiselle, "  said  he,  "that  was  in  tne 
sunshine  and  among  the  roses.  It  is  shadow  here. 
There  is  a  difference — somehow.  And  I  have 
been  thinking  of  things — that  were  unpleasant. 
The  sun  does  not  shine  everywhere, mademoiselle." 

But  the  girl  put  out  her  hand  with  a  quick 
gesture  and  touched  his  arm.  Her  eyes  were 
wide  and  distressed. 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  said  she  very  low,  "  come  back 
into  the  sunlight !  If  the  sun  does  not  shine 
everywhere  one  may  still  go  where  it  shines.  I 
— I  cannot  bear  to  see  any  one  unhappy  or  in — 
trouble.  Is  it  just  black  butterflies,  monsieur; 
papillons  noirs,  or  is  it  great  trouble?  Ah,  I 
would  have  sunshine  always  for  everybody !  I 
should  die  without  the  sun,  I  think.  Am  I  very, 
very  foolish,  monsieur?" 

"No,  mademoiselle,"  said  Beresford  gently, 
"you  are  very,  very  wise;  and  it  is  only  papillons 
noirs — not  a  great  trouble."  He  stopped  to 
shake  his  head  at  her  humorously,  and  he  gave 
a  little  whimsical  laugh. 

"  Fancy  anybody  thinking  of  his  troubles,  with 
you  about !"  said  he. 

"I  might  be  one  of  his  troubles  myself," 
suggested  Mademoiselle  de  Monsigny.  "Then 
he'd  have  to  think  of  me  to  be  polite.  Am  I 


MONSIGNY  85 

one  of  your  troubles,  Monsieur  Beresford?"  she 
demanded. 

" You  are,"  sighed  young  Beresford.  "You're 
a  great  trial  to  me.  You  kept  me  awake  half  of 
last  night." 

"  Oooh  !"  said  she  sorrowfully. 

"  But  I'll  forgive  you,"  he  went  on,  "for  it  was 
no  fault  of  yours.  You  can't  help  it,  can  you, 
if  presumptuous  young  men  dare  to  lie  awake 
thinking  about  you." 

"  What  was  this  particular  presumptuous  young 
man  thinking?"  inquired  Mile,  de  Monsigny 
rashly. 

A  sudden  little  flash  came  upon  Mr.  Beresford' s 
face  and  his  voice  mounted.  "What  did  he 
think?"  he  cried.  "Ah,  I'll  tell  you  what  he 
— no,  hang  me  if  I  will !  No,  I'll  not  tell  you 
what  he  thought,  mademoiselle,"  and  he  refused 
to  meet  her  eyes. 

"  I  thought  of  your  wit  and  beauty,"  he  mocked 
presently,  when  his  voice  was  once  more  quite 
calm,  "but  chiefly  of  your  hair.  Where  did  you 
get  your  wonderful  pale  hair,  mademoiselle? 
There  was  never  any  like  it  in  all  the  world.  And 
where  did  you  get  your  purple  eyes  ?  You  know, 
do  you  not,  that  they  call  you  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  Europe." 


86  MONSIGNY 

"  Then,"  said  the  girl  decidedly,  "they  talk  very- 
great  nonsense,  for  I  have  seen  many  women  who 
are  infinitely  more  beautiful  than  I  am.  My 
hair  is  a  great  trial  to  me.  It  is  tow  colour, 
monsieur — no  colour  at  all.  I  got  it  from  Yvonne 
de  Morlaix,  who  was  an  ancestress  of  mine,  a 
Bretonne.  Two  or  three  others  of  the  family 
have  had  it  since.  Me,  I  do  not  like  it.  I  wish  I 
had  my  mother's  hair,  as  I  have  her  eyes.  It  is 
tow!" 

"It  is  no  such  thing !"  cried  young  Beresford, 
indignantly.  "Tow,  indeed  !  It  is  the  very  soul 
of  gold  with  all  the  cheap  yellow  taken  away,  and 
just  a  creamy  tinge  of  colour  left  to  make  it  warm 
and  alive.  You  should  see  it  in  the  sunlight ! 
Tow !  Have  you  a  portrait  of  this  Yvonne  de 
Morlaix?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "but  it  is  a  very  crude 
and  poor  one.  Would  you  like  to  see  it  ?  It  is 
in  the  west  gallery  with  the  others.  There  is  a 
very  beautiful  portrait  of  my  mother  by  Carolus 
Duran.  I  should  like  you  to  see  that.  Come, 
we  will  go  up  to  the  house  now." 

They  left  the  little  summer-house  and  went  up 
through  the  gardens  by  a  gravel  path  which  ran 
under  the  stone  wall.  Isabeau  carried  a  great 
armful  of  long-stemmed  pink  roses  which  she  had 


MONSIGNY  87 

cut.  And  they  entered  the  west  wing  of  the 
chateau  and  made  their  way  through  suites  of 
high,  splendid  state  apartments,  shuttered  and 
darkened,  the  furniture  and  the  mirrors  covered 
with  white  linen,  to  the  long  picture  gallery  where 
the  portraits  of  the  Marquis  de  Monsigny  and  of 
their  wives  and  of  their  children  hung  in  double 
rows. 

Isabeau  rolled  the  shades  away  from  the  sky 
light  by  cords  which  hung  at  hand,  and  led 
Beresford  to  the  portrait  of  Yvonne  de  Monsigny, 
nee  de  Morlaix.  It  was,  as  she  had  said,  a  crude 
work,  and  did  probably  scant  justice  to  the 
charms  of  the  Bretonne  who  had  been  won  in  so 
summary  a  fashion  to  the  house  of  Monsigny; 
but  with  all  its  old-fashioned  stiffness  it  was 
undeniably  beautiful,  and  the  painter  had  reveled 
in  his  depiction  of  the  strange  pale  hair. 

"Yes,  it  is  beautiful,"  said  young  Beresford, 
"but  you  took  little  else  than  the  hair  from 
Yvonne  de  Morlaix,  mademoiselle.  She  was 
pale,  but  you  have  a  very  pink  skin,  and  she  had 
fair  eyebrows,  but  yours  are  dark,  and  she  had  a 
weak  chin.  I  do  not  like  people  with  weak 
chins.  May  I  see  the  portrait  of  your  mother?" 

"It  is  at  the  other  end  of  the  gallery,"  said 
Isabeau;  and,  as  they  went  along,  she  pointed 


88  MONSIGNY 

out  three  other  women  of  the  family  with  the 
Bretonne's  ashen  hair. 

"That  one  is  Jeanne  de  Monsigny,  who  married 
a  Due  de'Angoulesme,"  said  she.  "And  that  is 
Marie  Charlotte,  who  died  a  week  before  her  wed 
ding  day,  and  that  is  Amelie,  who  married 
a  Marchese  di  Sant  'Agata." 

Then  they  came  to  a  great  portrait  in  a  wide 
gold  frame  which  seemed  a  window  or  a  doorway, 
for  the  woman  pictured  there  was  living  and 
breathing,  smiling  at  one  through  the  opening 
in  the  wall.  She  sat  upon  a  gray-and-gold  couch 
of  the  Louis  Quinze  style,  and  she  was  leaning 
forward,  in  her  white  silk  gown,  with  one  arm 
laid  along  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  the  other 
resting  across  her  lap.  She  faced  you,  chin  tipped 
up  a  little,  smiling.  Her  arms  and  shoulders 
were  bare,  and  there  was  a  single  pink  rose,  half 
opened,  at  her  breast. 

Beresford  stepped  backward  with  a  quick  little 
smothered  cry.  Save  for  her  yellow  golden  hair 
the  woman  in  the  picture  might  have  been  painted 
with  absolute  fidelity  from  the  Isabeau  whom  he 
knew.  The  likeness  was  amazing. 

"You  are  all  Monsigny,  mademoiselle,"  he  said, 
after  a  long  time.  "There  is  no  Stratton  about 
you."  It  was  what  her  father  had  said  to  the 


MONSIGNY  89 

old  Earl,  years  before,  as  they  stood  on  the  south 
terrace  and  watched  her  rolling  about  in  the  dust 
with  her  puppy. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "I  am  all  Monsigny.  They 
say  I  am  very  like  my  mother,  and  I  suppose  it  is 
true.  I  am  going  to  the  chapel  now,  to  put  these 
roses  on  her  tomb.  I  take  them  there  every  day. 
Would  you  like  to  go  with  me  ? " 

"Thank  you,"  said  he  simply,  "I  should  like 
very  much." 

They  went  back  through  the  great  darkened 
state  apartments,  and  along  many  dim  corridors 
with  doors  upon  either  side,  through  what  seemed 
to  be  the  oldest  portion  of  the  chateau,  and  so 
into  a  little  irregular  court,  flagstoned  and  sur 
rounded  on  all  sides  by  the  crenated  and  time- 
stained  walls  of  the  building.  Gargoyles  grinned 
from  the  eaves,  and  a  quaintly  wrought  pointer 
of  iron  stood  out  from  one  of  the  walls,  throwing 
a  finger  of  shadow  upon  the  sun-dial  chiseled  into 
the  stone.  In  the  centre  of  the  court  there  was 
a  very  ancient  well,  long  disused,  with  a  curb  of 
worn  graystone  and  a  rusted  crank  of  iron  for 
raising  the  bucket.  Little  brown  lizards  were 
sunning  themselves  upon  the  curb. 

They  crossed  the  court  and  entered  the  gothic 
porch  of  the  chapel.  Ivy  covered  it  almost 


90  MONSIGNY 

completely,  and  hung  in  festoons  across  the 
opening.  The  girl  unlatched  the  heavy  little 
oaken  door  and  went  in. 

Inside,  the  chapel  was  very  cool — almost  cold, 
in  spite  of  the  summer  heat  without,  and  the  air 
smelled  of  incense  and  burned  wax  and  of  dry 
decay.  It  was  gloomy,  for  the  few  windows  were 
of  stained  glass — heavy  blues  and  scarlets  and 
greens.  From  the  rose  window  over  the  doors, 
which  faced  the  south,  beams  of  light  slanted 
down  through  the  dim  air  and  fell  in  prismatic 
lozenges  across  the  flagstone  pavement  and 
across  the  heavy  pillars  and  upon  the  sculptured 
tombs  which  stood  on  either  side  of  the  chapel. 
The  hanging  lamp  before  the  altar  gleamed,  a  tiny 
red  spark  in  the  shadows,  like  a  lighthouse  far 
away  at  sea. 

And  under  the  great  stone  arches  at  the  two 
sides  the  tombs  of  the  Marquis  de  Monsigny 
stood  bravely  arow,  each  with  his  Marquise 
beside  him.  Their  sculptured  effigies  in  armour 
or  in  robes  of  office  lay  upon  the  covers,  hands 
folded,  eyes  closed,  feet  toward  the  nave;  and  a 
little  scroll  at  the  foot  of  each  tomb  told,  in 
phrases  of  sonorous  Latin,  who  each  man  was  and 
the  deeds  he  had  done.  Pray  for  him ! 

But  there  was  one  tomb  which  stood  alone, 


"...     knelt  down  beside  the  tomb  and  said  a  little  prayer  for  the  soul  of  her 
mother  " 


MONSIGNY  91 

with  an  empty  space  beside  it.  It  bore  no  effigy 
upon  its  cover,  only  sculptured  wreaths  and  vines 
and  flowers;  and  four  little  caryatides,  cupids, 
upheld  it  at  the  four  corners.  There  was  a  cluster 
of  living  roses  upon  the  tomb,  yesterday's  roses, 
scarcely  withered  in  that  cool,  dark  place. 

The  girl  took  away  the  flowers,  laying  in  their 
place  the  ones  she  had  brought,  and  she  bent 
her  knee,  looking  toward  the  high  altar,  and  knelt 
down  beside  the  tomb,  and  said  a  little  prayer 
for  the  soul  of  her  mother.  Beresford  stood  near, 
by  one  of  the  gray  pillars,  watching.  It  gave 
him  a  curious  and  very  sweet  sense  of  intimacy 
to  see  her  so — to  feel  that  she  had  allowed  him, 
indeed,  of  her  own  accord  asked  him,  to  come  here 
with  her.  He  watched  the  soft  curve  of  her  cheek 
against  the  dark,  the  gleam  of  her  wonderful  hair 
in  the  shadow — the  soul  of  gold,  he  had  called  it 
— all  the  beautiful  strong  young  lines  of  her  body 
as  she  knelt  beside  the  tomb ;  and  a  great  passion 
of  tenderness  and  of  love  took  hold  upon  his  heart 
and  shook  him  from  head  to  foot — a  great  passion 
of  love  such  as  comes  to  strong  natures  only,  and 
it  swept  away  in  its  fierceness  all  doubts  and  fears 
and  promises,  all  dangers  and  difficulties — keen 
as  physical  pain,  and  solemn  as  the  ancient  place 
in  which  he  stood.  He  bent  his  head  to  it  and 


92  MONSIGNY 

bowed  his  great  shoulders  in  a  sort  of  grave,  awed 
wonder. 

And  when  they  came  out  at  last  into  the  warm 
sunshine  of  the  little  court  he  was  very  silent, 
with  a  certain  new  look  in  his  eyes  which  turned 
the  girl's  cheeks  to  a  deeper  pink  as  she  met  it. 


CHAPTER  VI 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON  this  same  morning  Lord  Stratton  found 
Mrs.  Marlowe  in  the  breakfast  room,  finishing  her 
late  meal  alone. 

"  Oh,  dear  !"  said  she  plaintively,  "  I  know  this 
is  a  dreadful  hour.  I  suppose  all  the  others  of 
you  have  breakfasted  long  ago,  but  I  am  habitu 
ally  lazy.  I  shall  make  no  attempt  to  conceal  it. 
I'm  an  owl,  Lord  Stratton — I  like  to  stop  up  till 
unseemly  hours  of  the  night,  and  sleep  till  an 
unseemly  hour  in  the  morning — if  not  till  noon 
itself.  Are  you  quite  disgusted  with  me?" 

Lord  Stratton  sat  upon  the  arm  of  a  chair  and 
smiled  across  the  table  at  her,  the  good,  frank, 
hearty  smile  of  a  man  who  is  habitually  grave. 

"I  am  not  disgusted  at  all,"  said  he.  "I  am 
amused.  You  shall  get  up  at  any  hour  you  like 
while  you  are  at  Monsigny.  I  dare  say  your 
passion  for  stopping  up  of  nights  is  the  result  of 
having  been  made  to  go  to  bed  early  when  you 
were  a  child.  I  have  known  people  who  spent 
their  lives  in  conscientiously  doing  all  the  things 
they  were  not  allowed  to  do  as  children.  They 

95 


96  MONSIGNY 

took  a  certain  evil  delight  in  it.  However,  if  you 
will  come  out-of-doors  with  me,  I  will  make  you 
genuinely  sorry  that  you  were  not  up  hours  ago. 
It  is  a  very  beautiful  morning." 

They  went  out  upon  the  terrace,  and  Mrs. 
Marlowe  breathed  in  the  freshness  and  the 
mingled  summer  odours  with  a  little  cry  of 
delight. 

"  I  am  sorry  !"  she  said.  "  I  really  am  sorry— 
but  I  expect  I  shall  be  quite  as  late  to-morrow. 
An  old  woman  doesn't  change  her  habits  easily. 
Oh,  isn't  everything  beautiful !" 

"You  do  not  look  an  old  woman,"  said  Lord 
Stratton,  laughing  a  little.  "You  look  a  very 
young  one.  I  have  been  told  that  old  women, 
or  semi-old  ones,  dare  not  face  the  morning  light. 
If  I  am  a  judge,  the  morning  light  becomes  you." 

"I  am  six-and-thirty,"  said  she,  "and  that  is 
old  age.  Don't  flatter !  You  are  such  a  grave 
and  convincing  person  that  one  always  believes 
what  you  say." 

"Six-and-thirty?"  said  he.  "God  bless  my 
soul,  I  am  fifty  !" 

" Oh,  a  man  !"  she  scoffed.  "A  man  may  be  a 
boy  at  fifty.  He  is  most  certainly  a  boy  till 
thirty,  and  sometimes  later.  But  a  woman ! 
Save  us !  She's  different.  Where  does  all  this 


MONSIGNY  97 

scent  of  roses  come  from?  Are  there  gardens 
near?" 

"There  are  rose  gardens  at  the  west,"  said  he. 
"Shall  we  walk  around  the  west  wing  of  the 
chateau?  One  has  a  very  good  view  of  them 
from  close  under  the  walls,  for  the  ground  slopes 
away." 

They  skirted  the  great  west  wing  and  came  out 
upon  the  narrow  terrace  of  green  turf.  The 
gardens  swept  away  from  under  their  feet  to 
the  hothouses  that  winked  and  glittered  in 
the  sun,  far  below. 

"There  is  some  one  down  among  the  roses," 
said  Mrs.  Marlowe — "two  people.  Ah,  it  is 
Isabeau  and — and  Ton— and  Mr.  Beresford." 
Her  tone  had  changed  very  suddenly,  but  Lord 
Stratton  was  watching  the  two  young  people, 
and  did  not  heed  it. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "yes,  it  is  Isabeau  and  Ashton 
Beresford." 

"He — seems  very  devoted,"  she  murmured, 
and  again  he  did  not  heed  her  tone. 

"It  is  as  I  would  wish,"  he  said  presently. 
"  There  is  no  better  man.  He  shall  have  my  con 
sent  if  he  can  win  hers." 

"And — "  said  the  woman,  "and  his  old  entan 
glement,  the  story  you  told  me  of?  You  are — 


98  MONSIGNY 

you  are  not — afraid?"  Her  face  was  turned 
away,  and  it  writhed  and  twisted  so  beyond  her 
control  for  an  instant  that  she  was  frightened. 

"  No  ! "  cried  the  Viscount  stoutly.  "  No  !  He 
is  innocent  of  any  wrong  or  of  any  meanness. 
I'll  swear  it.  I  know  the  man.  He  may  be 
Quixotic  but  he  would  never  be  dishonest.  Ah, 
they  have  gone  to  the  little  summer-house  where 
it  is  shady  !  Come,  shall  we  walk  ?  Let  me  show 
you  the  fountains  down  below  the  south  terrace. 
It  is  cool  under  the  bank.  On  the  hottest  days 
one  may  be  cool  there.  Come  ! " 

They  walked  back  to  the  south  wing  of  the 
chateau  and  crossed  the  avenue  and  went  down 
the  curving  steps  of  marble  that  disappeared 
ahead  of  them  into  a  thicket  of  green  shade — 
firs  overhead,  shrubbery  and  ivy  beneath.  So 
they  came  to  the  first  terrace  where  the  great 
Nereid  fountain  was,  with  its  long,  still  pool  before 
it  and  its  sculptured  marble  wall  all  stained  and 
moss-grown,  behind.  And  they  went  in  along 
the  stone  coping  of  the  pool,  in  near  to  the 
splashing  fountain,  and  found  a  cracked 
marble  seat  overgrown  with  ivy. 

The  trees  stood  close  together,  and  under  them 
spreading  shrubs.  Vines  and  bushes  hung  from 
the  bank  above,  making  the  place  almost  a  grotto. 


MONSIGNY  99 

It  was  dim  and  very  cool,  for  the  sun  never  came 
here,  and  the  mossy  earth  underfoot  was  black 
and  damp.  Through  the  vines  and  low-hanging 
boughs  they  could  see,  as  they  sat,  glimpses  of  the 
formally  laid  out  esplanade,  where  it  swept  down 
to  the  valley,  and  of  the  blue  lagoon  at  its  foot. 
Two  or  three  men  were  busy  at  the  near  edge 
of  the  lagoon,  repairing,  it  would  seem,  the 
stone  margin.  Among  them  towered  the  great 
shoulders  of  the  old  Earl. 

Mrs.  Marlowe  sank  back  in  her  seat  with  a  little 
sigh  of  restful  content,  and  half  closed  her  eyes. 

"Ah,  it  is  all  so  beautiful  and  peaceful  and 
idyllic  here,  my  friend,"  she  said  in  her  slow, 
lingering  tones.  "  It  is  like  old  tales,  romances  of 
another  day,  a  story-book  Eden  of  marble  and 
green  things  and  antiquity  and  peace.  It  is  like 
one's  dreams  of  fairy-story  castles.  Yes,  peace 
— peace  beyond  telling !  I  have  not  had  much 
peace.  Oh,  do  you  not  dread  leaving  it  ?  Could 
you  be  happy  anywhere  else  after  this  ?  I  should 
think  you  would  want  to  imprison  Isabeau  in  a 
convent  to  avoid  ever  having  to  leave  Monsigny." 

Lord  Stratton  leaned  forward,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  plashing  water  and  the  intertwined 
figures  of  the  marble  group.  He  chafed  his  hands 
together  absently  as  he  stared. 


ioo  MONSIGNY 

"I  should  dread  ever  leaving  Monsigny,  as  you 
suggest,"  he  said  slowly — "and  indeed  in  a  way 
I  do  dread  it — if  it  were  not  for — for  a  certain 
dream  I  have  of  late  been  dreaming  about — 
another  sort  of  happiness,  a  happiness  which  does 
not  depend  upon  place  nor  environment,  which 
goes  with  one  wherever  one  moves.  I  have 
dreamed,  I  wonder  if  it  is  foolishly,  that  my  life 
is  not  yet  lived,  that  there  might  still  be  much 
in  it  beyond  an  old  man's  portion  of  loneliness 
and  oblivion.  I  am  only  fifty,  and  I  am  not  old 

for  those  years.  I  wonder— I  wonder — I -" 

His  voice  stammered  and  trailed  away  into  silence. 
He  had  been  speaking  very  gravely  and  thought 
fully  and  low,  as  if  quite  to  himself,  and  he 
seemed  not  to  notice  when  he  ceased  to  think 
aloud. 

So,  for  a  long  time  neither  of  the  two  spoke, 
but  the  woman  sat  quiet  in  her  place,  pale  and 
wide-eyed,  with  a  certain  very  curious  expression 
upon  her  face,  and  Lord  Stratton  stared  at  the 
laughing  Nereids,  and  softly  chafed  his  hands 
together. 

Then  at  last,  a  little  restless  movement  and  a 
sigh  from  Mrs.  Marlowe  seemed  all  at  once  to 
rouse  him.  He  sat  up  with  a  jerk,  like  one 
wakened  from  sleep. 


MONSIGNY  101 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he.  "I — am 
very  rude.  I  fear  my  wits  were  wandering.  I 
have  lived  so  much  alone  that  sometimes  I — 
forget."  He  turned  about  on  the  old  stone  bench 
to  see  her  the  better,  and  his  face  was  gentle  and 
somehow  greatly  softened.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
grown,  all  in  a  few  moments,  much  younger — 
had  laid  off  the  sternness  and  hard  grimness  that 
grief  and  time  had  carved  upon  him. 

"A  little  while  ago,"  said  he,  "you  were  saying 
that  there  had  not  been  much  peace  in  your  life, 
and  yesterday  also  you  told  me  what,  of  course, 
I  already  knew  in  a  vague  way,  that  you  had 
been  very  unhappy.  Will  you  tell  me  something 
of  your  life?  Will  you  make  a  friend  of  me? 
Believe  me,  I  do  not  ask  in  idle  curiosity  !  Some 
times  it  is  a  sort  of  relief  to  unburden  one's  griefs 
and  sufferings  to  some  one  who  is  strong  and  safe 
and  who  cares  to  help  one.  I  think  you  know 
that  I — care  greatly.  I  should  like  to  make  your 
life  happier.  Tell  me  what  has  been  such  a  heavy 
load  of  suffering  upon  you,  for  I  think  it  can  have 
been  no  ordinary  thing.  How  long  have — have 
you  been  a  widow?" 

But  the  woman  fell  back  in  her  seat,  shrinking 
away  from  him,  and  her  hands  quivered  and 
twitched,  hiding  her  face. 


102  MONSIGNY 

"Oh,  no,  no!  Oh,  no,  I— I  can't!  Don't— 
ask  me  anything!"  she  cried  in  a  low  choking 
voice.  "I — can't  speak  of — of  it.  Don't  ask 
me  !  Don't  ask  me  ! ' '  She  had  spent  many  hours 
during  the  past  five  years  in  preparing  for  just 
such  an  occasion  as  this.  She  had  often  rehearsed 
what  she  would  say,  and  with  just  how  effective 
a  degree  of  womanly  sadness  she  would  tell  the 
plausible  story;  but,  curiously  enough,  she  had 
almost  never  had  occasion  to  refer  to  her  past. 
It  had  been  understood,  everywhere  she  went, 
that  she  was  a  widow  who  remained  unconsolable 
over  the  death  of  her  husband,  and  very  few 
people  had  ever  even  mentioned  her  early  life. 
So  it  was  that  she  had  fallen  out  of  the  habit 
of  holding  herself  in  hand,  ready  for  the  emer 
gency.  Also,  the  life  of  constant  fear  and  dread 
which  she  had  been  through  had  sadly  undermined 
her  strength,  and  now  she  found  herself  in  a 
nervous  panic  quite  beyond  her  control,  for  the 
moment.  But  she  gripped  her  hands  and  set  her 
teeth  very  fiercely,  calling  up  all  her  strength  to 
the  need,  and  after  a  little  was  outwardly  calm 
again. 

"Please — forgive  me,"  she  begged,  and  her 
voice  still  shook.  "  I — I  am  not  very  strong,  and 
my  nerves  play  me  tricks — sometimes.  What — 


MONSIGNY  103 

is  it  you  would  know  ?  My — husband  ?  He  died 
nearly  four  years  ago.  He — he  died  under — 
peculiarly  dreadful  circumstances — not  disgrace 
ful — oh,  not  that !  But  very  terrible.  It  was 
in — in  India.  I  did  not — greatly  care  for  him — 
not  as  a  man's  wife  should  care,  but  his — his 
death  was  a  very  great  shock.  I — I  try  to  think 
of  it  as  little  as — possible.  I  try  to  put  all  that 
— part  of  my  life — behind  me — to  act  as  if  it  had 
not  been.  Do  you  understand  ?  Surely  you  can 

see  how  I  feel Ah,  it  was  so  dreadful,  all 

of  it,  all  of  it!"  She  broke  off,  sobbing,  and 
Lord  Stratton  laid  one  of  his  strong  quiet  hands 
upon  her  arm. 

"Do  not  say  any  more,  I  beg  of  you,"  he  pro 
tested,  and  his  voice  was  gentle  and  pitiful.  "I 
should  not  have  asked  you  to  speak  of  it  at  all. 
I — I  did  not  know  how  painful  it  was  to  you.  Do 
not  think  me  guilty  of  mere  curiosity.  I  have 
never  been  a  curious  man.  I  wished  only  to  share 
the  burden  of  your  grief — to  help  you,  if  I  might." 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  fell  to  pacing  up  and 
down  the  stone-edged  margin  of  the  pool,  over  the 
damp  earth .  "I  am  a  lonely  man ,  Mrs .  Marlowe , ' ' 
said  he  gravely.  "Even  now  I  am  lonely,  with 
my  daughter  and  my  father  to  keep  me  company, 
and  one  day  I  shall  be  lonelier,  for  my  daughter 


104  MONSIGNY 

will  marry  and  my  father  will  die.  I  said  I  had 
dreamed  that  my  life  was  not  done — that  there 
might  yet  be  more  for  me  than  an  old  man's 
portion.  I  wish  to  marry  again,  and  there  is  but 
one  woman,  among  all  those  I  know,  whom  I 
would  choose.  I  have  not  the  great  fresh  love  of 
a  young  man  to 'offer  her,  for  no  one  may  love 
twice  as  I  loved  Isabeau  de  Monsigny,  but  all  my 
care  and  strength  and  tenderness  should  be  for 
her.  It  may  be  that  I  could  make  her  very- 
happy."  He  turned  to  face  Mrs.  Marlowe,  and 
threw  out  his  two  arms  in  a  little  open  gesture. 
"You  are  the  woman,"  said  he.  "You  are  the 
only  woman  I  should  ever  think  of  wishing  to 
marry.  Am  I  too  abrupt,  too  plain  spoken? 
Alas,  I  am  a  very  simple  man.  It  is  many  years 
since  I  have  had  occasion  to  use  words  of  love, 
and  they  come  awkwardly  to  my  lips.  I  have 
no  eloquence,  no  complexities  of  wooing  to  offer 
you,  but  I  think  I  could  make  your  life  happier, 
and  I  am  very  sure  that  you  could  make  me 
young  again.  Will  you  marry  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Marlowe  had  leaned  back  in  her  seat  once 
more,  and  her  hands  were  pressed  against  her 
cheeks,  but  over  them  her  eyes  were  very  wide 
and  sober,  fixed  upon  the  man's  face.  It  had 
come  earlier  than  she  had  expected,  his  proposal 


MONSIGNY  105 

of  marriage,  earlier  even  than  she  wished,  for 
every  woman,  though  she  be  a  widow  and  has 
tasted  great  trouble,  has  yet  in  her  a  certain 
girlish  coquetry,  a  certain  instinctive  reluctance 
to  make  her  supreme  surrender,  though  that  sur 
render  be  sweet  to  her.  She  had  no  intention  of 
refusing  to  marry  the  Viscount;  indeed,  as  she 
had  said  to  Ashton  Beresford,  she  had  come  to 
Monsigny  with  the  intention  of  marrying  him; 
but,  now  that  he  had  spoken,  she  found  herself 
curiously  unprepared,  curiously  unwilling  to  give 
him  his  answer. 

She  stretched  out  one  of  her  hands  toward  him, 
and  he  took  it  between  his. 

"Oh,  dear  friend!"  said  she,  looking  up  into 
his  face,  "give  me  a  little  time  to  consider.  You 
take  me  by  surprise — no,  see,  I  will  be  quite 
honest  with  you !  I  knew  that  it  was  coming, 
this ;  I  felt  that  you  would  speak  to  me  sometime, 
but  a  woman  puts  such  things  off  into  the  future. 
She  is  never  ready  to  meet  them  when  they  come. 
Women  are  such  foolish  things !  Do  not  press 
me  to-day.  Give  me  until  to-morrow.  I  want 
to  go  off  alone — oh,  quite  by  myself — and  think. 
You  have  done  me  a  great  honour.  I  must  not 
treat  it  lightly,  even  to  accept  it.  Will  you  let 
me  be  alone  for  awhile  ?  I  think  I  shall  take  a 


io6  MONSIGNY 

long  ramble  over  the  fields  and  through  the 
woods.  I  like  to  be  out  in  the  heart  of  nature 
when  I  have  great  things  to  decide.  Will  you 
let  me  be  alone  ?  Do  not  wait  luncheon  for  me. 
I  may  be  gone  some  hours." 

Lord  Stratton  bent  over  the  hand  that  he  held 
and  kissed  it. 

"I  will  wait  as  long  as  you  choose,"  said  he 
gravely.  "I  will  not  hurry  you,  though  I  must 
confess  to  much  impatience.  Your  answer  means 
a  good  deal  to  me — a  great  happiness  or  a  great 
disappointment . ' ' 

The  sound  of  raised  voices  came  up  to  them 
from  the  margin  of  the  lagoon  far  below,  made 
very  faint  and  metallic  by  the  distance.  They 
turned  to  look.  Two  of  the  working-men  who 
had  been  repairing  the  stone  curb  seemed  to  be 
having  a  most  spirited  discussion,  enlivened  by 
such  gestures  as  only  a  Latin  can  accomplish. 
Then,  in  a  moment,  the  great  figure  of  the  old 
Earl  appeared  from  near  by  and  seemed  endeav 
ouring  to  make  peace.  One  of  the  fellows,  who 
must  have  been  greatly  carried  away  by  passion, 
would  seem  to  have  transferred  his  rage  and 
his  gesticulations  to  the  newcomer,  but  the 
Earl's  temper  was  somewhat  widely  celebrated. 
He  seized  the  man  by  the  throat  with  one  hand 


MONSIGNY  107 

and  by  the  scarlet  sash  with  the  other  and, 
lifting  him  from  the  ground  as  one  might  lift  a 
cat,  threw  him  far  out  into  the  shallow  water. 

Lord  Stratton  laughed.  "My  father  is  not 
exactly  a  safe  man  to  oppose,"  said  he.  Then, 
all  at  once,  his  eyes  turned  swiftly  toward  her 
face,  and  were  met  by  her  own.  It  was  quite 
evident  that  the  same  thought  had  come  to  them 
both. 

"  He  will  learn  to  love  you  when  he  knows  you 
better — as  any  one  must,"  said  the  Viscount 
gently.  "He  is  a  rather  grim  old  man.  You 
must  not  mind  his  odd  ways.  Now  I  must  go. 
It  will  seem  very  long  to  me  till  to-morrow." 

He  kissed  her  hand  again  and  left  her  there  by 
the  fountain,  and  went  up  the  marble  steps  to 
the  avenue  above.  There  were  some  small 
matters  to  be  looked  after  at  the  stables,  and  he 
attended  to  these;  and,  after  glancing  idly  into 
the  dairy,  strolled  back  toward  the  chateau.  He 
felt  very  restless,  curiously  ill  at  ease,  and  none 
of  the  many  usual  modes  of  employing  his  time 
seemed  to  attract  him.  His  mind  was  upon  the 
dead  Isabeau  de  Monsigny  and  upon  that  life  of 
twenty  years  ago.  He  could  not  rid  himself  of 
the  thought,  nor  call  his  attention  to  anything 
else. 


io8  MONSIGNY 

It  was  rather  naturally  the  result  of  the  scene 
through  which  he  had  just  passed — the  speaking 
again,  after  so  many  years,  of  words  of  love  to  a 
woman,  the  awakening  of  a  long-dulled  heart 
to  responsiveness  to  a  woman's  voice  and  look 
and  touch.  He  had  said  to  Mrs.  Marlowe  that 
he  was  a  simple  man,  and  it  was  very  true. 
There  was  no  complexity  in  him.  He  was  like 
the  old  Earl  in  mind  as  in  body,  strong  in  likes 
and  dislikes,  plain  of  speech  and  single  of  view. 
He  had  loved  Isabeau  de  Monsigny  with  a  passion 
that  was  almost  terrible  in  its  single-hearted 
earnestness,  and  he  had  no  thought  that  this  new 
companionship  which  he  sought  should  attempt 
to  fill  her  place  or  in  any  way  be  to  him  what  she 
had  been. 

Still,  as  he  moved  restlessly  about  the  chateau 
upon  this  day,  the  image  of  his  dead  wife  persisted 
strangely  in  his  mind,  and  troubled  him.  He 
wondered  if,  after  all,  he  had  not  been  wrong  in 
thinking  of  a  second  manage — if  there  was  not  in 
it  a  certain  disloyalty  to  the  only  woman  he  had 
ever  loved. 

He  found  himself,  heedless  of  how  he  had  come 
there,  in  the  little  irregular  sun-bathed  court  at 
the  north  of  the  chateau,  where  were  the  old 
well  and  the  sun-dial,  and  where  gargoyles  with 


MONSIGNY  109 

heads  of  beasts  or  of  devils  or  of  monks  grinned 
hideously  from  the  weather-stained  eaves.  He 
crossed  to  the  ivied  chapel  and  entered  by  the 
heavy  little  oaken  door.  The  gloom  and  the 
incensed  coolness  of  the  place,  the  bars  of  coloured 
light  from  the  windows,  the  ancient  stillness, 
seemed  good  to  him — restful  and  soothing. 

He  went  and  stood  in  the  dim  shadow  by  the 
tomb  of  Isabeau  de  Monsigny.  It  was  covered 
with  fresh  roses  of  the  deep  pink  that  she  had 
loved,  and  he  knew  that  the  younger  Isabeau 
must  have  laid  them  there  that  same  morning. 
He  knelt  beside  the  tomb  and  laid  his  arms  out 
across  its  top,  bowing  his  face  upon  them,  and 
twenty  years  were  rolled  away  like  the  rolling 
up  of  a  curtain  that  masks  the  stage. 

He  was  back  again  in  those  cruel,  bitter  days 
when  the  marble  tomb  beneath  his  arms  was  white 
and  new,  when  all  the  world  was  a  pall  of  cold 
horror,  and  life  was  ashes  in  the  mouth.  He  had 
used  to  come  here  a  great  deal  then,  in  the  first 
keenness  of  his  grief.  He  had  used  to  come. 
when  all  the  servants  were  asleep  and  there  was 
no  one  to  spy  upon  him,  and  spend  the  night 
alone  with  her,  talking  to  her  as  if  she  could  hear 
through  that  heavy  carven  slab  of  stone. 

It  came  back  to  him  for  an  instant  with  a  great 


no  MONSIGNY 

rush  of  agony,  a  tidal  wave  of  bitterness  and 
impotent  rage  at  fate,  and  the  sense  of  utter 
solitude,  but  he  took  firm  hold  upon  himself 
with  all  his  great  calm  strength,  and  shook  it 
off,  knowing  that  it  was  only  a  moment's 
breakdown  of  the  nerves. 

"Sweetest,"  he  said  aloud,  "I  wonder  what 
you  would  have  me  do.  I  wonder  what  you 
would  say  if  you  could  speak  to  me.  If  only  you 
could  speak  to  me !  Sometimes  I  cannot  bear 
the  thought  of  any  one  taking  your  place  in  any 
respect.  It  is  revolting.  But  she  will  not  take 
your  place,  my  queen.  She  will  only  bear  me 
company  as  I  grow  old.  You  understand,  do 
you  not  ?  I  cannot  love  again  and  I  cannot  forget, 
and,  when  I  am  dead,  they  shall  bring  me  here 
and  lay  me  beside  you  as  we  agreed.  But  I  am 
very  lonely,  Isabeau,  very  lonely !  You  would 
not  begrudge  me  comfort  and  a  woman's  care?" 

His  voice  echoed  and  rang  in  the  dark,  empty 
place,  but  he  did  not  heed  it,  for  he  was  very 
greatly  in  earnest.  It  was  like  him  to  come 
here,  as  it  were  to  consult  with  the  dead  woman 
whom  he  had  so  loved.  It  was  like  his  simple 
directness  in  all  things. 

"Show  me  some  sign,"  he  begged,  still  aloud. 
"Give  me  some  signal  if  you  think  I  am  doing 


MONSIGNY  in 

wrong,  if  you  think  it  disloyal  to  you.  Oh, 
Isabeau,  she  will  never  take  your  place.  I  shall 
never  love  again  as  we  two  loved."  And  so  he 
went  on  speaking,  arguing,  as  it  were,  pleading, 
assuring,  as  if  the  woman  heard  in  her  marble 
tomb,  till,  after  a  very  long  time,  his  voice  died 
away,  and  he  dropped  his  face  once  more  upon 
his  outstretched  arms,  crushing  the  fresh  pink 
roses  that  she  had  loved. 


CHAPTER  VII 


CHAPTER  VII 

BUT  Mrs.  Marlowe,  when  Lord  Stratton  had 
left  her,  sat  for  nearly  an  hour,  very  quiet  and 
still  by  the  splashing  fountain,  and  stared  out 
over  the  terraced  esplanade  below  her,  to  the 
wood  and  the  blue  hills  beyond;  so  quiet  that, 
after  a  time,  a  frog  climbed  out  of  the  pool  and  sat 
upon  the  stone  curb  blinking  at  her,  and  birds 
fluttered  down  from  the  tangle  of  shrubbery  to 
hunt  for  worms  in  the  damp  earth  under  her  feet. 

Below,  at  the  edge  of  the  lagoon,  the  Earl 
lingered  a  few  moments,  giving  directions  with 
emphatic  nods  of  his  strong  white  head.  The 
woman  shivered,  involuntarily,  as  she  watched 
him,  this  terrible  old  man  with  his  uncanny 
strength  and  his  fierce,  piercing  eyes  that  seemed 
to  see  the  nethermost  corners  of  her  quaking 
soul.  She  was  genuinely  afraid  of  him,  and  she 
had  a  strange  feeling  of  certainty  that  he  was 
destined  to  work  her  ill.  She  shivered  again  as 
she  recalled  to  mind  his  throwing  the  man  into 
the  water,  and  Lord  Stratton's  laughing  remark 
that  his  father  was  not  exactly  a  safe  person  to 

"5 


n6  MONSIGNY 

oppose.  She  was  quite  sure  that  the  Earl  would 
oppose  his  son's  marriage  to  her,  and  the  thought 
of  his  antagonism  filled  her  with  an  unreasoning 
terror. 

But  presently  the  Earl  went  away,  and  all 
but  one  or  two  of  the  working-men  went  away 
also,  and  she  fell  to  thinking  of  Lord  Stratton's 
offer  and  of  the  life  which  might  lie  before  her  if 
she  should  marry  him.  There  was  peace  and 
quiet  and  rest — an  end  to  this  life  of  fear  and  of 
penury.  There  was  happiness,  it  seemed  to  her, 
for  she  knew  that  Lord  Stratton  would  be  very 
kind;  and  indeed,  she  felt  that  any  release  from 
the  life  she  had  led  would  be  happiness. 

They  would  live  quietly,  she  said  to  herself, 
sometimes  here  at  beautiful  Monsigny,  some 
times  at  Strope  Manor,  though  as  little  as 
possible,  she  thought,  in  England.  There  would 
always  be  danger  there,  the  danger  of  recog 
nition,  and  she  was  very  firmly  determined 
that  Lord  Stratton  should  never  know  about 
her  past.  Yes,  he  would  be  kind  to  her, 
she  was  certain  of  that,  kinder  than  most 
men,  and  very  thoughtful;  and  he  would  not 
demand  too  much,  for  he  was  not  a  young  man 
nor  demonstrative.  And,  sitting  there  in  the 
cool  shade,  she  made  a  very  solemn  vow  to  herself 


MONSIGNY  117 

that  she,  on  her  side,  would  be  everything  to  him 
that  a  woman  could  be — that,  in  return  for  the 
many  things  he  was  offering  her,  she  would  use 
every  means  in  her  power  to  make  him  happy 
and  contented. 

"I  can  make  him  happy !"  she  cried  softly  to 
the  birds  and  to  the  blinking  frog  and  to  the 
marble  Nereids.  "I  know  that  I  can  make  him 
happy,  and,  oh,  I  shall,  I  shall !  I  shall  spend 
all  my  days,  all  my  thought  and  strength  in 
trying  to  make  his  life  good  to  him.  I  shall  be 

all  he  has,  for  of  course  Isabeau  will "  Then 

all  at  once  she  halted  with  a  little  catch  of  the 
breath,  and  something  took  hold  of  her  heart 
and  wrung  it. 

"Isabeau  will — marry — Tony  Beresford,"  she 
whispered  slowly.  ' '  She  will  marry — Tony. ' '  She 
sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  little  low  cry  that  sent 
the  birds  and  the  inquisitive  frog  back  to  their 
coverts  in  a  panic.  Her  hands  shook  and  clenched 
at  her  sides,  and  her  face  quivered. 

"She  shan't  marry  him!"  cried  the  woman 
fiercely.  "She  shan't  marry  him!  It  would 
drive  me  mad  to  think  of  them — of  them,  married  ! 
He — swore  that  I  should  have  all  his  life.  He's 
breaking  his  word.  Oh,  I  dare  not  think  of 
them  married!  I  dare  not."  She  dropped 


n8  MONSIGNY 

back  into  her  seat,  with  her  face  in  her  hands, 
sobbing. 

"Tony,  Tony !"  she  cried  in  a  whisper,  "you — 
must  not  do  it.  I've  borne  a  great  deal  from  the 
world :  I  can't  bear  any  more.  To  see  you  forget 
—altogether,  to  see  you  making  love  to  another 
woman,  to  see  her  listening,  to  know  what  you 
are  saying  to  her  when  I  cannot  hear,  to  think 
of  you — of  you  married  to  her.  Oh,  Tony,  I 
can't  bear  it !  I  suppose  I  am  a  wicked  woman," 
she  said  after  a  long  time,  dropping  her  hands 
listlessly  into  her  lap  and  staring  out  again  to  the 
blue  hills.  "I  suppose  I  am  a  wicked  woman. 
I  have  nearly  wrecked  a  man's  life — a  man  whom 
I — whom  I  loved,  and  now  I  wish  to  wreck  it 
altogether  just  for — jealousy.  Yes,  that  is  it,  just 
jealousy," — her  hands  clenched  again,  instinc 
tively,  and  she  caught  her  lip  between  her  strong 
white  teeth — "a  jealousy  so  fierce  that  it  burns 
me  when  I  think  of  it,  sends  little  dagger  things 
all  through  me !  I'd — oh,  I'd  commit  crimes 
rather  than  let  you  marry  that  girl,  Tony !  I'd 
do  anything,  anything.  It  frightens  me  to  feel 
so,  to  know  that  I've  so  little  control  over  myself. 
Ah,  Tony,  Tony,  this  love,  it's  a  strange  thing ! 
And  women  are  queer  cattle,  aren't  they,  boy? 
They'll  do  more  for  their  love  than  you  men. 


MONSIGNY  119 

I  am  a  wicked  woman !  I  had  not  known  how 
wicked.  I've  tried  so  hard  not  to  be !  It  isn't 
that  I  want  to  be  bad,  but  there's  something 
goes  mad  inside  me  when  I  think  of  you  loving 
any  one  else.  Ah,  why  did  I  not  marry  you, 
years  ago,  Tony?  Maybe  we  should  have  been 
happy  together.  I  think  not,  but  maybe  we 
should  have  been."  And  she  fell  to  staring  out 
into  the  distance,  with  her  hands  clasping  and 
unclasping  and  twisting  about  each  other  on  her 
knees. 

Then,  after  a  time,  she  rose  and  took  up  her 
broad  hat  which  had  fallen  beside  the  bench, 
and  went  out  upon  the  open  terrace  where  the 
steps  led  down  toward  the  lower  esplanade  with 
its  little  fountains  and  urns  and  geometrically 
laid  out  shrubbery,  and  to  the  broad  lagoon. 
She  went  slowly  down  the  steps  and  through  the 
curving  gravel  paths  to  the  water's  edge,  and  she 
turned  to  glance  backward,  up  the  splendid  vista 
to  the  chateau  which  crowned  it  all.  There  was 
no  one  in  sight;  the  labourers,  who  had  been 
working  beside  the  lagoon,  were  gone,  and  the 
old  Earl  was  gone,  also. 

She  turned  to  the  left,  skirting  the  pond,  and 
walked,  at  a  leisurely  pace,  across  the  meadow 
at  its  western  end  and  over  some  little  sparsely 


120  MONSIGNY 

wooded  hills  beyond.  She  saw  the  stables  and 
the  dairy  houses  far  at  her  left,  and  the  wide 
pasture  dotted  with  grazing  cattle,  red  and  white 
and  black  and  soft  tan,  but  she  held  on  over  the 
grassy  rolling  hills,  across  a  little  stream  and  along 
shaded  paths ;  and  the  warm  sweet  summer  peace 
of  it  all  was  balm  to  her. 

She  came  upon  a  little  old  peasant  woman 
in  white  cap  and  blue  apron,  gathering  fagots 
beside  a  woodland  road.  The  woman  courtesied 
deeply.  She  was  very  much  bent,  and  she  had  a 
sharp  nose  and  chin  that  seemed  trying  to  meet, 
and  sharp  cheek  bones  and  bright  little  eyes  that 
seemed  to  have  no  lids,  but  peered  out  between 
yellow  folds  of  parchment  skin.  She  called  Mrs. 
Marlowe  "Madame  la  Marquise." 

"But  I  am  not  Madame  la  Marquise,"  said 
Mrs.  Marlowe  laughing.  "I  am  only  a  visitor  at 
the  chateau.  Poor  thing !  she  is  a  little  mad. 
There  has  been  no  marquise  for  thirty  years." 
She  took  a  piece  of  two  francs  from  the  wallet 
which  hung  at  her  girdle  and  put  it  in  the  dry, 
brown  claw,  but  the  old  woman  hobbled  closer 
and  peered  up  into  her  face,  sidewise,  like  a  bird. 
Her  piercing  gaze  was  so  like  the  Earl's  that 
Mrs.  Marlowe  shivered  involuntarily. 

"Jfif  /*//"  said  the  little  old  woman,  nodding. 


MONSIGNY  121 

"A  great  sin,  Madame  la  Marquise,  a  great  sin ! 
It  is  in  Madame' s  eyes.  A  great  sin  !  Sins  they 
are  paid  for  here,  then  in  hell,  but  here  first. 
///,  madame  has  done  a  great  sin  1"  And  she 
turned  about  and  hobbled  down  the  woodland 
road,  clutching  her  bundle  of  fagots  and  shaking 
her  head. 

"Oh,  here,  too?"  cried  Mrs.  Marlowe  in  a 
choking  voice.  "Shall  I  never  escape  it?  Shall 
I  never  find  peace?"  And  she  dropped  down 
upon  a  grassy  mound  under  a  tree,  sobbing 
very  bitterly. 

So  she  wandered  on,  alternately  walking  and 
sitting  on  the  grass  under  some  tree,  for  a  long 
while.  She  had  lost  all  account  of  time  and 
direction,  save  that  she  knew  she  was  still  within 
the  walls  of  the  vast  estate.  She  had  much  to 
think  about  and  a  certain  mental  struggle  to  go 
through,  so  that,  of  the  things  about  her,  she  took 
little  heed. 

"There  is  no  use  in  trying!"  she  cried  at 
last,  and  threw  out  her  hands  with  a  helpless 
gesture,  as  it  were  of  surrender.  "There  is  no 
use  in  trying.  I  cannot  see  him  married  to 
another  woman — not  that  beautiful  girl,  any 
how.  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  prevent  it,  and  it  will 
be  the  most  contemptible  thing  that  any  woman 


122  MONSIGNY 

ever  did."  She  sank  down  against  a  tree-trunk 
with  a  weary  sigh. 

"I've  tried,"  she  said  aloud.  "Oh,  I've  tried, 
but  I'm  not  strong  enough.  I  wonder  if  any  one 
ever  was  so  low.  I — love  him,  and  yet  I  would 
do  anything  in  my  power  to  wreck  his  happiness. 
I  must  be  very,  very  bad,  quite  bad,  and  yet — 
I  wish  I  were  not.  I  wish  I  might  be  like  other 
women,  peaceful  and  dull  and  happy  and — and 
good.  Oh,  good !" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  very  faint 
cries  from  a  little  way  to  the  right.  She  was  so 
absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts  that,  for  a  long 
time,  she  did  not  heed,  but  at  last  she  sat  up  and 
listened.  The  cries  were  so  incessant  that  they 
beat  through  her  dulled  consciousness.  It  might 
be  only  some  wood-bird  calling,  but  it  sounded 
like  a  child  in  pain.  At  last  she  rose  to  her  feet 
and  followed  the  direction  of  the  sound,  for  now 
she  was  quite  certain  that  the  faint  cries  were 
human. 

A  broad  cleft  in  the  earth,  a  ragged  gully, 
zigzagged  through  the  wood,  a  little  way  beyond. 
There  were  naked  boulders  and  loose  earth  upon 
its  flanks,  and  a  tiny  stream  trickled  along  its  bed. 
Mrs.  Marlowe  crept  cautiously  to  the  verge,  lest 
the  earth  might  give  way  under  her,  and  looked 


MONSIGNY  123 

down.  A  little  child  of  three  or  four  years,  in 
coarse  peasant's  clothes,  was  lying  at  the  foot 
of  the  bank,  about  ten  feet  below.  It  would 
seem  to  have  been  playing  at  the  brink  of  the 
gully  and  to  have  fallen  upon  the  rocks  beneath. 

"The  poor  little  dear !"  cried  the  woman. 
"Oh,  the  poor  little  crushed,  wounded  thing !" 
She  looked  about  for  a  better  place  to  descend, 
and  finally  made  her  way  to  the  bed  of  the  ravine 
at  the  expense  of  bruised  hands  and  soiled  clothing. 
Then  she  hurried  to  the  child's  side. 

One  of  his  legs  was  doubled  under  him,  and 
there  was  a  cut  on  his  cheek,  and  both  his  tiny 
hands  were  bruised  and  bleeding.  She  lifted 
him  very  tenderly  and  laid  him  upon  a  bit  of  soft 
turf  nearby.  The  leg  seemed  not  to  be  broken, 
but  she  thought  that  the  ankle  was  sprained. 
The  other  cuts  and  bruises  were  of  no  great  conse 
quence.  She  dipped  her  handkerchief  in  the 
running  water  and  washed  the  blood  from  the 
pale  little  face  and  from  the  bruised  hands  and 
knees.  The  child's  great  eyes  followed  her  mutely 
and  he  moaned  from  time  to  time,  but  wept  no 
longer,  so  that  it  was  evident  he  was  not  in  great 
pain. 

"Ah,  what  shall  I  do  for  your  poor  ankle?" 
cried  the  woman,  "It  should  be  bandaged,  but 


124  MONSIGNY 

I've  nothing — wait !"  She  raised  her  gown  and 
tore  a  great  strip  from  the  white  skirt  under 
neath.  Then  she  wet  it  in  the  cold  water,  and, 
folding  it  so  that  the  soft  plain  linen  was  under 
neath,  with  the  lace  and  embroidery  above, 
wrapped  it  about  the  injured  leg. 

The  child  cried  out  with  the  pain,  and  beat  his 
hands  feebly  against  her,  but  she  finished  the 
bandaging,  and  then  threw  herself  down  beside 
him,  gathering  his  tiny  hands  into  hers,  and 
laying  her  face  against  his  cheek. 

"Oh,  dearest,  dearest !"  she  sobbed,  "do  you 
suppose  I  want  to  hurt  you  ?  Don't  you  know  I 
had  to?  Don't  you  know  that  it  hurt  me  a 
thousand  times  more  than  you  ?  It  went  straight 
to  my  heart,  every  time  you  screamed.  Poor 
little  baby  child,  all  alone  and  wounded  so ! 
Dearest,"  she  whispered,  "you  might  be  my  little 
child,  mine,  do  you  know  ?  My  very  own !  If 
only  I  had  a  baby  of  my  own,  to  care  for,  to  live 
for,  to  be  good  and  brave  and  strong  for,  to  hold 
close  to  me  till  I  felt  his  heart  beat,  to  watch  in 
the  night  when  he  was  sleeping !  Oh,  dearest,  a 
woman  with  no  child  is  such  a  pitiful  thing  !  Such 
a  lonely,  mistaken,  unnatural  thing !  If  I  had 
had  a  child  like  you,  long  ago,  everything  might 
have  been  different,  do  you  know?  So  beauti- 


MONSIGNY  125 

fully,  happily  different !  A  woman  could  not  be 
wicked  with  a  little  child  to  love.  Ah,  well !" 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  looking  down  the 
ravine,  with  her  brows  drawn  together  in  thought. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  said.  "I  don't  know 
where  I  am  nor  how  far  from  the  chateau.  I 
wonder  if  there  is  a  lodge  near  by  that  he  might 
have  strayed  from.  Surely  he  could  not  have 
come  all  the  long  way  from  the  chateau.  What 
shall  I  do  ?"  She  went  back  and  knelt  beside  the 
child,  who  lay  quite  still,  watching  her  with  great 
wondering  dark  eyes. 

"Oh,  dearest !"  said  she,  "what  shall  I  do  with 
you?  I  dare  not  leave  you  here  while  I  go  for 
help.  Indeed,  I  should  not  know  where  to  go, 
save  to  the  chateau.  Can't  you  tell  me  where 
to  go  ?  Who  are  you,  dear  ?  Is  there  a  lodge  or 
a  cottage  near  by?"  She  had  dropped  into 
French,  in  the  hope  of  gaining  some  information 
from  the  child,  but  he  only  stared  at  her,  grave 
and  unwinking. 

"Oh,  I  must  carry  you,  baby !"  she  cried  at 
last.  "I  must  carry  you.  It  is  the  only  way, 
and  I  am  not  very  strong.  Will  you  be  very, 
very  good,  baby  child,  and  not  cry  if  I  hurt  your 
poor  ankle?" 

She  brought  more  cold  water  from  the  stream, 


i26  MONSIGNY 

holding  her  two  hands  like  a  cup,  and  she  wet  the 
linen  bandage  afresh,  and  bathed  the  child's 
feverish  head.  Then  she  gathered  him  up  in  her 
arms,  and  started  down  the  ravine  to  a  point 
where,  she  saw,  would  be  the  easiest  ascent  to  the 
bank.  The  child  cried  out  with  the  pain  at  first; 
but  she  kissed  him  and  murmured  to  him  in  the 
soft  mother  tongue  which  is  a  tone  and  not  a  lan 
guage,  and  she  held  him  very  gently  against  her,  so 
that,  after  a  moment,  he  fell  silent  once  more  and 
continued  staring  up  into  her  face,  solemn  and  still. 

It  taxed  all  her  strength  to  gain  the  high  bank 
with  the  injured  child  in  her  arms.  Once  she 
nearly  fell,  but  at  the  top  she  sank  down  upon  a 
great  boulder  and  rested  a  little,  till  she  had 
regained  her  breath.  Also,  she  called  aloud 
several  times  for  aid,  thinking  that  some  one 
might  be  near,  but  out  of  sight  in  the  wood. 

"There  is  nobody  about,  baby,"  she  said  to  the 
child.  "We  must  get  to  the  chateau,  somehow." 
And  her  heart  sank,  for  she  was  not  a  strong 
woman  physically. 

There  was  a  little  hill  in  a  field  close  by  the 
edge  of  the  wood.  It  appeared  to  be  the  highest 
ground  near,  and  she  had  the  wit  to  take  an 
observation  from  it,  leaving  the  whimpering 
child  at  its  foot. 


MONSIGNY  127 

"Oh,  baby,  baby !"  she  cried  joyfully  from  the 
summit.  "I  can  see  the  chateau !  It  is  not 
more  than  a  mile,  I  think.  I  must  have  come  in 
a  great  semi-circle.  A  mile  is  not  such  a  great 
deal.  Courage,  baby,  we  shall  make  it !"  She 
gathered  him  up  in  her  arms  and  set  out  bravely 
across  the  turf,  but  he  was  a  heavy  child,  far  too 
heavy  for  her  to  carry  any  distance,  and,  as  has 
been  said,  she  was  not  strong.  She  had  to  stop 
very  often  and  lay  him  down,  while  she  regained 
her  breath  and  rested  her  aching  arms  and 
back.  Also,  the  day  was  hot,  for  it  was,  by 
now,  mid-afternoon,  and  the  ground  was,  some  of 
it,  difficult — alternating  bits  of  wood  with  open 
field,  and  once  even  a  brook  which  she  boldly 
waded,  and  where  she  stopped  again  to  wet  the 
child's  bandage  and  to  drink  a  little  of  the  cold 
water. 

"Oh— baby,  but  it's— harder  than  I— thought  I" 
she  panted.  "You're  such  a  heavy — baby  !  such 
a  terribly  heavy  baby,  and  my  poor — head  is 
going  round,  round,  round  !" 

Once  she  thought  she  must  have  fainted,  for 
she  came  suddenly  to  herself  and  found  the  child 
before  her  on  the  turf,  whimpering  gently,  and 
she  herself  was  on  her  knees.  "Courage,  baby 
dear  !"  she  gasped,  and  tried  to  smile  down  upon 


ia8  MONSIGNY 

him  cheerfully,  but  the  march  had  become  a 
dreadful  nightmare,  in  which  strange -looking 
trees  and  boulders  and  miles  and  miles  of  green 
turf  dragged  themselves  by  under  her  unceas 
ingly,  and  everything  above  the  level  of  her  eyes 
was  black  and  noisy. 

Then,  when  from  a  bit  of  high  ground  she  had 
seen  that  she  was  near  the  pasture  where  the 
cattle  grazed,  when  her  knees  shook  under  her 
helplessly,  and  the  constant  buzzing  noise  in  the 
air  had  become  almost  unbearable,  there  came 
crashing  in  the  undergrowth — she  was  among 
trees — and,  of  all  men  in  the  world,  the  Earl  of 
Strope  appeared. 

The  woman  swayed  weakly  to  her  knees  and 
laid  the  child  on  the  ground  before  her — she 
nearly  dropped  forward  across  its  body — and 
she  fell  to  weeping,  the  tears  of  absolute  exhaus 
tion,  nervous  and  physical. 

"Eh?"  cried  the  old  Earl  gruffly.  "Who  the 
devil  are  you?  What  the  devil  are  you  doing 
here?"  and  his  heavy  white  eyebrows  worked  up 
and  down  like  a  gorilla's.  He  had  been  deep 
in  thought,  and,  as  often  happens  among  old 
people,  he  was  slow  in  coming  to  complete 
attention. 

"What   are   you   doing   here?"   he   repeated. 


MONSIGNY  129 

"And  what  are  you  sniveling  about?  Stop  it! 
Is  that  your  child?  Eh,  what?  You've  been 
hurting  it.  It's  all  covered  with  bruises.  Don't 
look  so  scared.  You're  always  looking  scared. 
I  don't  know  who  you  are,  but  I've  seen  you 
somewhere  before,  and  you  are  always  looking 
scared.  You've  done  something  very  bad. 
That's  why  your  eyes  look  so.  Get  up,  get  up  !" 

"Oh,  don't  you  know  me?  Don't  you  know 
me  ?"  cried  the  woman.  She  remembered,  in  the 
midst  of  her  exhaustion  and  faintness,  what  Lord 
Stratton  had  said  about  the  Earl — that  he  was 
not  always  himself,  that  he  had  "spells,"  and  she 
feared  that  he  would  do  her  or  the  child  some 
harm. 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  she  repeated,  turning 
her  white  face  up  to  him.  "  I'm  Mrs.  Marlowe — 
Mrs.  Marlowe  !  I  am  stopping  at  the  chateau  !" 

"Eh?"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  bending  for 
ward.  "God  bless  my  soul!  So  you  are! 
What  are  you  doing  here  ?  Whose  child  is  that  ? 
You're  ill,  and  the  child  is  wounded.  God  bless 
my  soul !" 

"I  was — walking,"  she  said  weakly,  "and  I 
found — the  child — in  a  ravine.  He  had  fallen 
and — and  was  hurt.  I  didn't  dare  leave  him,  so 
—I — carried  him.  I  was — trying  to  reach  the 


1 3o  MONSIGNY 

— chateau,  but  I'm Oh,  I'm  so  tired — so 

tired!" 

The  Earl  bent  over  the  child  and  looked  at  it 
carefully.  He  touched  the  bandaged  ankle,  and 
the  child  set  up  a  wail  of  pain. 

"It  is  one  of  the  undergardener's  children," 
he  said.  "It  must  have  strayed.  There  is  no 
great  hurt,  save  for  the  ankle."  Then  he  paused 
and  stared  at  the  half -fainting  woman. 

"  You  have  carried  that  heavy  child  all  the  way 
from  the  ravine?"  he  said  slowly.  "You  have 
carried  that  child,  you!  By  God,  you  are  a 
plucky  woman !  It  has  nearly  fagged  you  out, 
hasn't  it  ?  By  God,  you  are  a  plucky  woman  !  I 
should  not  have  believed  the  thing  possible.  I 
have  never  liked  you.  There  is  something  about 
you  that  I  don't  understand  and  don't  trust,  but 
I  think  you  are  the  pluckiest  woman  I  have  ever 
met." 

He  took  the  child  up  and  laid  it  in  the  hollow  of 
his  great  left  arm,  as  if  it  had  been  a  kitten. 

"Come!"  said  he.  "Pull  up  all  you  can.  It 
is  not  far  to  the  chateau.  Take  my  right  arm 
and  rest  all  your  weight  on  it.  If  it  is  necessary, 
I  can  carry  you  easily."  But  Mrs.  Marlowe, 
trying  to  rise  to  her  unsteady  feet,  fell  over  all  at 
once  and  fainted  quite  away. 


MONSIGNY  131 

Ten  minutes  later  the  grooms  and  working-men, 
gathered  in  a  group  before  the  stable  door,  were 
amazed  to  see  the  old  Earl  of  Strope  come  striding 
in  among  them,  bearing  in  his  mighty  arms  a 
woman,  apparently  dead,  and  across  the  woman's 
body  a  whimpering,  wide-eyed  child. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THERE  was  little  talk  at  the  dinner  table  that 
evening  of  anything  but  Mrs.  Marlowe's  adventure 
with  the  undergardener's  child,  until  that  lady 
— who  was  of  a  genuinely  modest  temperament- 
was  ready  to  leave  the  room  for  sheer  embar 
rassment.  She  was  still  a  bit  pale,  and  looked 
tired  about  the  eyes,  but  a  long  sleep  since  mid- 
afternoon  had  greatly  recovered  her  from  the 
exhaustion  and  nervous  strain  through  which 
she  had  passed.  Isabeau  herself  had  met  the 
Earl  as  he  reached  the  chateau  with  Mrs. 
Marlowe  in  his  arms,  and  had  taken  the  fainting 
woman  to  her  own  rooms,  and  there  kissed  and 
wept  over  her,  and  rubbed  her  head  with  eau  de 
cologne  till  she  fell  asleep  like  a  tired  child. 

"I  think  I  have  never  so  misjudged  any  one," 
she  said  penitently  to  Ashton  Beresford,  at  dinner. 
"I  could  not  bring  myself  to  like  her.  I  don't 
know  why.  There  was  something  about  her 
that  repelled  me.  But  now — oh,  I'm  ashamed 
enough  now.  It  was  the  pluckiest  thing  I  ever 
knew  a  woman  to  do.  She  must  have  carried 


136  MONSIGNY 

that  poor  child  more  than  a  mile  through  the  hot 
sun,  and  it  was  a  very  heavy  child,  too.  Wasn't 
it  splendid!" 

"It  was  splendid!"  said  Beresford  warmly. 
' '  She  is  a  very  brave  woman.  She  probably  saved 
the  child's  life.  A  stronger  woman  of  different 
temperament  could  never  have  done  it.  Very 
nervous  people  of  the  frail  type  often  accomplish 
surprising  feats  of  strength.  Where  is  Madame 
de  Brissal  to-day?  Not  ill,  I  hope." 

"Ah,  the  poor  dear!"  said  the  girl.  "Her  fit 
of  giddiness  last  night  left  her  with  a  most 
dreadful  headache  that  has  lasted  nearly  all  day. 
They  are  seldom  so  severe,  her  attacks.  I  must 
go  up  to  her  for  a  little  while  after  dinner.  You 
won't  mind?" 

"  I  shall  mind  a  very  great  deal,"  said  he,  "  and 
you  know  it,  but  of  course  you  must  go  to  her — 
only,  come  down  again  later!" 

"I  shall  come  down  again,"  she  said. 

Beresford  and  the  old  Earl  took  their  cigars 
down  upon  the  avenue,  and  walked  back  and 
forth  in  the  moonlight  where  the  cool  night  breeze 
blew  across  their  faces.  Mrs.  Marlowe  and  Lord 
Stratton  lingered  beside  the  little  coffee  table  on 
the  south  terrace. 

"I  told  you,  Lord  Stratton,"  said  she,  "that 


MONSIGNY  137 

I  would  give  you  my  answer  to-morrow.  I  think 
I  will  give  it  you  now,  for  I  am  quite  decided. 
I  went  off  alone,  to-day,  to  think  it  over,  to  look 
at  it  from  every  point,  and  before  I  found  that 
poor  wounded  child  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  marry  you.  You  say  that  you  are  a  lonely 
man,  and  I  think  you  know  that  I  am  a  lonely 
woman.  We  are  neither  of  us  very  young,  and 
we  have  not  a  great  young  love  to  offer  each  other, 
but  I  honestly  think  that  we  could  be  happy 
together,  very  happy  and  very  contented,  for  I 
know  that  you  would  be  infinitely  kind  to  me, 
and  I — oh,  I  should  do  everything,  everything 
that  a  woman  could  do,  to  make  you  a  good 
wife.  I  will  marry  you  whenever  you  wish  it, 
Lord  Stratton." 

The  Viscount  moved  toward  her  swiftly,  with 
a  little  impulsive  boyish  cry  of  gladness,  but  she 
put  out  her  hand,  laughing  softly,  to  check  him, 
and  turned  her  head  to  where  the  two  white 
shirt  bosoms  of  the  other  men  gleamed  in  the 
half  light  below,  and  the  red  ends  of  their  cigars 
glowed  and  paled. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  better,"  she  said,  "not  to 
— to  tell  them  quite  yet,  but  let  them  come  to 
know  me  better.  It  will  look  so  very  sudden, 
will  it  not  ?  They  will  be  so  unprepared," 


138  MONSIGNY 

"That  shall  be  as  you  like,"  said  he,  "but  I 
think  I  ought  soon  to  tell  my  father.  He — he 
may  be  a  bit  difficult  to  win  over.  He  does  not 
like  the  thought  of  my  marrying  again.  How 
ever,  you  have  done  more  to-day  to  influence 
him  than  all  I  could  say  or  do.  He  admires 
nothing  so  much  as  pluck  and  bravery,  and  your 
bringing  that  great  child  home  to  safety  has 
impressed  him  more  than  you  know.  Shall  we 
join  them,  down  there  in  the  avenue  ?  We  have 
none  of  the  moonlight  here." 

They  went  down  where  the  two  men  wTere 
walking,  and  all  four  strolled  slowly  back  and 
forth  on  the  smooth  white  drive.  Lord  Stratton 
had,  by  chance,  placed  himself  beside  the  old 
Earl,  so  that  Mrs.  Marlowe  walked  with  Ashton 
Beresford. 

"Let  them  get  on  a  bit  ahead,  Tony,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you.  So  ! — Ah, 
that  is  still  better."  A  groom  had  approached 
the  two  men,  coming  from  the  direction  of  the 
stables,  and  evidently  wished  them  to  go  there, 
for  they  turned  half  about,  waving  their  hands 
toward  Beresford  and  Mrs.  Marlowe,  and  set  off 
briskly  with  the  servant. 

"Now,  come  down  below  by  the  fountains," 
she  said.  "It  is  like  daylight  here."  There  was 


MONSIGNY  139 

a  certain  air  of  subdued  excitement  in  her  manner, 
but  when  they  had  descended  to  the  lower  terrace 
and  stood  in  shadow  by  a  stained  old  marble 
balustrade  waist  high,  where,  leaning,  one  looked 
down  upon  all  the  moon -bathed  loveliness  of  the 
esplanade  and  the  still  lagoon,  she  seemed  at  a 
loss  for  words,  and  a  curious  shyness  came  upon 
her. 

"I — I  saw  you  this  morning  in  the  gardens 
with — her,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Ah?"  said  he  pleasantly.  "Oh,  yes,  yes,  I 
was  there.  And  I  saw  you  up  by  the  house 
with — Lord  Stratton." 

"Well,  what  of  that?"  she  demanded  with  a 
little  sharpness  in  her  tone. 

"What  of  it?"  said  he.  "Why,  nothing  of  it, 
at  all,  nothing  more  than  of  my  being  with 
Mademoiselle  de  Monsigny.  Why  did  you  feel 
called  upon  to  mention  that?" 

But  the  woman  made  a  quick  little  gesture  in 
the  dark.  "Ah,  we  must  not  quarrel,  Tony," 
said  she.  "We  must  not  quarrel  unless — unless 
we  have  to,  not  over  little  things,  anyhow.  Listen, 
Tony  !  I  took  a  very  long  walk  to-day,  all  alone, 
because  I  wanted  to  think  out  some  things, 
decide  them — fight  a  bit,  maybe,  with  myself. 
And  I  came  to  a  certain  conclusion  about — about 


140  MONSIGNY 

you  and  me.  I  tried  to  have  it  otherwise ;  oh,  I 
fought  hard,  but — I'm  only  a  woman,  after  all. 
Women  are  weak  in  some  ways.  Perhaps  I'm 
weaker  than  other  women.  I  have  not  been 
very  happy.  Ah,  well,  it's  this.  I  won't  give 
you  up,  Tony ;  I  can't  give  you  up.  You — you 
must  not  marry  that  girl,  nor,  if  you  are 
honourable,  make  love  to  her — make  her 
care  for  you.  You  made  me  a  promise,  long 
ago.  You  gave  me  your  life.  Well,  I  refuse 
to  give  it  you  back.  That  is  all.  I  hold  you 
to  your  word." 

Beresford  drew  a  very  long  deep  breath,  and, 
in  the  dark,  she  heard  the  great  muscles  in  his 
arms  and  shoulders  crackle  gently  as  he  took 
fierce  hold  upon  himself  and  held  himself  rigid. 

"Yet  you  intend,  I  believe,  to  marry  Lord 
Stratton  ?"  he  said  in  a  very  quiet  tone. 

"I  promised  this  evening  to  marry  him,"  said 
she  carelessly.  Then,  all  at  once,  when  it  was 
too  late,  she  caught  herself  up  sharply,  with  a 
sudden  gasp,  for  she  had  meant  not  to  tell  him 
of  her  engagement  till  she  had  wrung  some  sort 
of  promise  from  him.  Her  mind  was  so  intent 
upon  the  main  line  of  her  thought  that  the  words 
had  slipped  out  before  she  realised  what  she  was 
saying. 


MONSIGNY  141 

"Ah !"  said  young  Beresford  slowly.  "That 
would  be  a  rather  strange  thing,  would  it  not? 
Your  holding  me  to  such  a  promise — though  for 
five  years  you  have  quite  ignored  it,  and,  only 
yesterday,  refused  to  marry  me — the  while  you 
were  betrothed  to  another  man.  You  are  a 
curious  woman,  Margaret." 

"I  don't  care,  I  don't  care !"  she  cried  tensely. 
"  You  may  call  me  what  you  will,  and  think  of  me 
as  you  will.  I'm  as  contemptible  as  you  choose, 
but  I  cannot  bear  your  making  love  to  another 
woman !  I  would  do  anything — commit  crimes, 
lie — anything  to  keep  you  from  it !  Oh,  Tony, 
Tony,  have  you  forgotten  so  completely?  Is 
there  nothing  in  me  of  the  woman  you — you  used 
to — love?  Yes,  yes,  you  did,  you  did,  if  it  was 
only  a  little !  I  knew  it.  I  could  see  it !  Am  I 
not  the  same  woman,  Tony?  Have  I  grown  so 
old,  so  ugly,  that  there  is  nothing  sweet  in  me 
now?  Tony,  you  can't  have  forgotten!" 

She  stretched  out  her  white  arms  to  him  along 
the  marble  balustrade  and  her  voice  shook  in  the 
beginning  of  little  sobs. 

Beresford  saw  that  her  arms,  where  they  had 
touched  the  coping  of  the  balustrade,  were 
covered  with  bits  of  earth  and  little  twigs  and 
dust  that  soiled  the  soft,  white  skin.  And  he 


i42  MONSIGNY 

took  out  his  handkerchief  and  brushed  them 
clean,  with  an  exclamation  of  disgust.  It  made 
him  think  of  something  he  had  seen  two  or  three 
years  before  in  Africa.  The  hut  of  a  Belgian 
trading  agent  had  been  looted  and  his  wife  and 
children  killed.  Beresford  had  been  the  first  of 
the  relief  party  to  enter  the  door  next  day,  and 
had  found  the  woman  lying  upon  her  face  on  the 
floor.  She  had  been  dragged  by  the  hair  some 
little  way,  and  her  arms  and  one  shoulder  and  the 
side  of  her  face  were  smeared  with  earth.  It  had 
seemed  to  him  more  horrible,  this  disfiguring  of 
the  white,  smooth  flesh,  than  the  actual  wounds, 
and  he  had  never  forgotten  it. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  know  what  you  are  saying," 
he  declared  gravely.  "You  are  about  to  marry 
another  man.  Surely  that  releases  me  altogether 
from  my  promise.  You  have  had  a  very  exhaust 
ing  day,  Margaret,  and  you  are  a  bit  nervous  and 
hysterical.  Shall  we  not  leave  all  this  till 
another  time? — if  indeed  it  must  be  spoken  of. 
Of  course,  what  you  have  been  saying  is  quite  out 
of  the  question." 

"  It  is  not  out  of  the  question,"  she  cried,  "  and 
we  will  not  put  it  off  until  another  time.  I 
definitely  hold  you  to  your  promise." 

"And  I,"  said  Beresford,  "definitely  refuse  to 


MONSIGNY  143 

be  held  under  such  conditions.  It  is  altogether 
absurd.  What  in  Heaven's  name  are  you  going 
to  do  with  me  after  you  are  married?" 

"I  won't  release  you!"  she  cried  again,  as  if 
she  had  not  heard  him.  "  I  tell  you  I  cannot  bear 
it.  I  have  your  promise,  and  I  won't  release 
you" 

"It  is  war,  then?"  said  he.  "War,  Margaret? 
I  have  the  better  hand,  you  know,  if  I  choose  to 
show  it.  No,  no,  do  not  let  us  be  absurd  !  You 
have  your  coming  marriage  to  think  of.  Do  not 
try  to  interfere  with  me.  Your  engagement 
leaves  me  quite  free  to  do  what  I  will  with  my 
life." 

But  the  woman  came  close  to  him  in  the  dark, 
looking  up  into  his  face. 

"Don't  try  me  too  far,  Tony!"  she  said  in  a 
strained  voice.  "Don't  try  me  too  far.  I  warn 
you,  you  will  be  sorry.  I — I  told  you  that  I 
should  do  anything,  say  anything,  lie,  commit 
crimes,  to  keep  you  from  marrying  that  girl,  and 
I  shall  if  you  refuse  to  listen  to  me.  Ah,  Tony, 
I  am  not  responsible  for  myself  when  this  jealousy 
takes  me  by  the  heart.  I  go  almost  mad.  Take 
my  warning — please,  please !  I  beg  of  you. 
Don't  drive  me  desperate.  Oh,  I  know  how 
absurd  it  all  seems  to  you !  You're  only  a  man, 


144  MONSIGNY 

and  you  do  things  by  reason.  Women  don't 
reason,  Tony,  they  feel.  I  shall  do  something 
dreadful  if  you  don't  listen  to  me  !" 

Beresford  made  a  little  exclamation  of  impa 
tience.  He  saw  that  the  woman  was  becoming  a 
bit  hysterical,  and,  like  all  men,  he  hated  scenes. 

"Come!"  said  he.  "We  must  be  going  back. 
It  will  look  very  odd,  our  disappearing  so.  We 
will  talk  this  over  to-morrow.  Nothing  can 
happen  before  then,  you  know." 

They  went  back  up  the  steps,  silently,  and  out 
upon  the  avenue.  There  seemed  to  be  no  one  on 
the  terrace,  but  the  two  men  were  just  coming  up 
the  drive  from  the  stables. 

"It  was  a  horse  which  had  fallen  in  its  stall 
and  injured  a  leg,"  said  Lord  Stratton  to  Beres 
ford,  as  they  met.  "The  grooms  were  a  bit 
anxious,  as  the  horse  is  a  valuable  one.  I  dare 
say  it  will  come  out  all  right.  I  am  sorry  that  we 
had  to  leave  you." 

The  old  Earl  had  placed  himself  beside  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  apparently  in  a  somewhat  tardy  attempt 
to  make  himself  agreeable,  so  that  they  walked 
on  ahead  of  the  others,  and  after  a  turn  or  two 
mounted  the  steps  of  the  terrace  to  sit  down,  while 
Lord  Stratton  and  Beresford  continued  their 
stroll,  back  and  forth  in  the  moonlight. 


MONSIGNY  145 

Then,  in  five  or  ten  minutes,  Mrs.  Marlowe 
rose  and  went  into  the  chateau;  and  presently 
Beresford,  seeing  that  Isabeau  was  not  likely  to 
appear,  excused  himself  to  write  a  letter  which 
must  be  sent  by  the  early  morning  post. 

Lord  Stratton  mounted  the  steps  of  the  terrace 
and  sat  down  opposite  the  old  Earl  who  was 
pouring  himself  a  fourth  cup  of  black  coffee. 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Mrs.  Marlowe,"  said  he. 
"  I  know  you  will  not  be  pleased,  but  I  am  a  very 
lonely  man  and  I  want  a  woman's  care.  I  am 
going  to  marry  Mrs.  Marlowe." 

"You  are  not,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
briefly,  and  poured  a  little  cognac  into  his 
coffee. 

"I  say  I  am,"  declared  the  younger  man.  "She 
is  a  good  woman  and  an  attractive  one.  I  think 
she  will  be  a  good  wife.  I  think  I  shall  be  much 
happier  married  to  her.  She  knows  that  I  can 
never  forget — forget  Isabeau,  and  she  will  not 
expect  a  boy's  passion.  She  will  not  expect  to 
be  to  me  what  Isabeau  was,  but  I  think  we  shall 
be  happy.  After  all,  your  opposition  is  more 
because  the  idea  is  new  to  you  than  for  any  other 
reason.  You  always  oppose  a  thing  until  you 
have  had  time  to  grow  accustomed  to  it." 

"I  do  not  believe  that  she  is  a  good  woman," 


146  MONSIGNY 

said  the  Earl,  ignoring  the  reference  to  himself, 
"and  I  do  not  believe  you  would  be  happy  together. 
What  do  you  know  about  her,  anyhow?" 

"I  know  that  she  is  a  widow,"  said  Lord  Stratton, 
"and  I  know  that  she  has  had  an  unhappy  life. 
Further  than  that,  I  know  that  she  is  accepted 
in  the  best  houses  at  Nice  and  Mentone,  and 
even  in  Rome — among  the  Whites." 

"Nice  and  Mentone !"  cried  the  old  gentleman 
in  disgust.  "Who  knows  anything  about  any 
body  in  Nice  and  Mentone?  And  who  is  not 
received  there?  Your  butler  might  set  up  for 
a  baronet  anywhere  along  the  Riviera  and  no 
one  would  be  the  wiser.  And  as  for  the  Whites 
in  Rome,  they  are  a  set  of  Anglomaniac  curiosity 
seekers.  They  will  receive  any  one.  Neither 
Rome  nor  Paris  has  any  society  nowadays. 
The  Blacks  are  either  dead  or  too  poor  to 
entertain,  and  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  is 
the  same.  Who  knows  anything  about  this 
woman's  husband?" 

"He  died  in  India,  four  years  ago,  as  I  told 
you  this  morning,"  said  Lord  Stratton. 

"He  did  not,"  said  the  Earl.  Lord  Stratton 
uttered  a  little  exclamation  of  impatience,  then 
he  laughed,  for  he  was  used  to  his  father's  way. 

"When   you  told   me   this   noon,"    continued 


MONS1GNY  147 

the  old  gentleman,  "that  Mrs.  Marlowe's  husband 
had  died  in  India,  I  thought  it  very  strange,  for 
I  remembered  distinctly  that  Lady  Eversham 
had  told  me,  in  Nice,  the  man  died  in  America. 
Mrs.  Marlowe  had  told  her  so.  No,  it  could  not 
have  been  a  mistake.  Lady  Eversham  is  the 
most  painstakingly  accurate  woman  I  ever  knew, 
too  much  so  altogether.  I  say,  I  thought  it  very 
strange,  and  so,  this  evening,  a  few  minutes  ago, 
I  asked  Mrs.  Marlowe  something  about  her 
husband,  leading  up  to  it  in  some  gradual  way, 
I  have  forgotten  how." 

Lord  Stratton  could  not  resist  a  short  laugh. 
He  knew  something  of  the  Earl's  "gradual" 
leading  up  to  a  subject. 

"I  told  her  that  I  had  heard  he  died  in  America, 
and,  at  first  she  said  yes,  then  she  became  very 
confused  and  nervous  and  said  no,  it  was  in  India, 
and  that  she  was  with  him  at  the  time.  Now, 
I  have  been  three  times  in  India,  as  you  know, 
and  I  asked  her  enough  questions  to  make  it 
quite  clear  that  she  had  never  been  there.  She 
lied  about  her  husband's  death,  and  lied  very 
stupidly,  too.  She  could  easily  have  made  up  a 
better  tale.  I  say,  as  I  have  said  before,  she  is 
not  to  be  trusted.  She  has  done  something 
very  bad  and  she  is  afraid  she  will  be  found  out. 


i48  MONSIGNY 

You  shall  not  marry  her,  anyhow,  till  we  know 
much  more  about  her  earlier  life.  I  dare  say 
she  never  had  any  husband." 

"That  is  quite  absurd,"  said  Lord  Stratton 
warmly.  "What  you  say  is  certainly  odd,  but  I 
have  no  doubt  she  can  explain  it,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that  she  will,  at  the  proper  time.  Anyhow, 
I  won't  have  my  guests  cross-examined  and 
frightened.  You  probably  frightened  her  till  she 
did  not  know  what  she  was  saying.  We  shall 
find  out  all  that  is  necessary,  you  may  be  sure. 
You  are  too  suspicious." 

"I  like  her  pluck,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
shaking  his  white  head.  "She  did  a  fine  thing 
to-day,  but  a  man  must  ask  for  more  than  pluck 
in  the  woman  he  marries."  Then,  for  awhile, 
they  smoked  in  silence,  each  very  thoughtful. 

"Where  is  Isabeau  to-night?"  asked  the  Earl, 
rousing  himself  at  last. 

"With  Mme.  de  Brissal,"  said  Lord  Stratton. 
"She  said  she  would  be  down  later,  but  I  expect 
madame  was  restless  and  Isabeau  could  not  come 
away.  That  is  why  Ashton  Beresford  went  in  so 
early.  I  think  they  are  greatly  taken  with  each 
other." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
heartily.  "He  is  a  man — and  that  is  rare  in  this 


MONSIGNY  149 

generation.  I  think  he  will  make  a  good  hus 
band.  He  is  not  the  light-minded  or  fickle  type. 
He  is  almost  as  solemn  as  you  or  I.  What  was 
the  trouble  he  got  into  a  few  years  ago  ?  I  have 
forgotten." 

' 'A  divorce  case, ' '  said  Lord  Stratton.  "Colonel 
Travers — ' '  Sudan ' '  Travers.  You  knew  him — got 
a  divorce  from  his  wife,  and  named  Beresford. 
No  one  believed  that  Beresford  was  in  fault — 
except  Travers,  I  suppose.  Beresford  took  it 
hard.  It  bowled  him  out  seriously,  I  fancy. 
Queer  case,  as  I  remember  it.  Beresford  shut 
up  very  oddly  about  a  number  of  things  that 
were  charged.  They  had  witnesses  who  swore 
to  seeing  Beresford  about  at  places  with  the 
woman — hotels  and  the  like.  I  don't  believe  it 
was  true,  but  he  would  not  deny  it.  Shielding 
the  woman,  I  dare  say.  Probably  there  was 
another  man  in  the  business.  Anyhow,  I  would 
trust  the  boy  absolutely.  You  would,  too,  I 
think.  If  he  wants  Isabeau  he  shall  have  her — 
if  she  cares  for  him,  and  I  think  she  does." 

The  old  Earl  rose,  laying  down  the  end  of  his 
cigar,  and  stretched  his  great  arms  till  the  muscles 
crackled.  And  he  nodded  his  white  head  to  the 
moon. 

"I  was  telling  Beresford  this  morning,"  said 


1 5o  MONSIGNY 

he,  "that  something  is  going  to  happen  here  at 
Monsigny — something  out  of  the  common.  I 
feel  it  more  strongly  than  ever  to-night.  Some 
thing  strange  is  going  to  happen.  I  wonder  what 
it  will  be.  Of  one  thing  I  am  sure.  That  woman 
with  the  scared  eyes  will  have  a  part  in  it.  I  tell 
you  she  is  not  to  be  trusted." 


CHAPTER  IX 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  next  two  or  three  days  passed,  for  every 
one  at  the  chateau,  under  a  pall  of  vague  unrest. 
The  air  seemed  charged  with  premonition, 
heavy  with  a  sinister  foreboding  of  ill,  and  they 
waited,  ignorant  of  what  was  to  come,  but  certain 
that  something  impended.  The  Earl's  discom 
fort  seemed  to  have  become  contagious. 

Mrs.  Marlowe  and  Lord  Stratton  were  together 
during  a  great  part  of  the  day;  but  the  woman 
was  moody,  full  of  strange  whims,  full  of  little 
bursts  of  affection  and  unexplained  coldnesses — 
given  to  long  fits  of  silence.  Lord  Stratton  was 
frankly  worried.  He  had  opened  again,  with 
much  delicacy,  the  old  subject  of  her  husband's 
death,  and  she  had  told  him  a  story  of  some  length 
about  the  occurrence,  with  no  sign  of  nervousness, 
dwelling  upon  its  unusually  horrible  circumstances 
and  her  consequent  dread  of  recalling  it  to  mind. 
But  even  to  Lord  Stratton' s  simple  and  unsuspi 
cious  ears  the  tale  rang  false  and  unconvincing. 
He  would  not,  for  the  world,  have  admitted  to 
himself  that  he  did  not  believe  it,  but  it  troubled 


154  MONSIGNY 

him  greatly  and  made  him  very  unhappy.  He 
took  to  spending  much  of  his  time  in  the  ancient 
chapel,  alone  in  the  dim  shadows  with  the  wife 
of  his  youth,  and  he  prayed  earnestly,  as  only 
strong  and  simple  natures  may,  for  light  and  for 
guidance  and  for  peace  of  soul. 

But  the  woman  whom  he  meant  to  marry,  left 
thus  alone,  would  wander  off  across  the  fields 
and  through  the  wood  for  hours  together — not, 
as  the  Earl  uncharitably  suggested,  in  search  for 
further  deeds  of  heroism  to  perform,  but,  like 
Lord  Stratton,  for  peace  of  soul.  She  made,  in 
those  days,  alone  with  the  blue  sky  and  the  clean 
sweet  winds  and  the  teeming  earth,  as  brave  a 
fight  against  hopeless  odds  as  ever  any  one  made. 
She  was  not,  as  she  had  so  often  despairingly 
cried  out,  a  bad  woman  by  nature  or  by  choice, 
but  she  was  stabbed  and  burned  by  a  devil  of 
jealousy  against  which  her  frail  strength  was 
altogether  helpless — a  devil  whose  unsuspected 
fury  frightened  and  awed  her.  Under  its  influence 
every  normal  feeling,  every  generous  and  good 
impulse  fell  away  till  she  was  ready  to  use  any 
means  to  gain  her  ends. 

Young  Beresford,  too,  seemed  visibly  affected 
by  the  spirit  that  was  everywhere  about  Monsigny. 
He  had  spent  a  nearly  sleepless  night  after  his  last 


MONSIGNY  155 

interview  with  Mrs.  Marlowe  on  the  lower  terrace, 
and  he  realised,  though  probably  not  to  full 
measure,  that  a  woman  so  fiercely  and  unreason 
ably  moved  by  jealousy  might  be  capable  of 
going  to  great  extremes;  so  that  he  went  about 
gloomily  like  the  others,  fearful  of  he  knew  not 
what,  and  avoided  Isabeau  as  much  as  he  could. 
He  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time  with  the 
old  Earl,  to  that  gentleman's  huge  delight.  In 
the  morning  they  conscientiously  lifted  the  white 
heifer,  which  accepted  its  doubled  indignities 
with  patient  resignation,  and  during  the  day 
they  rode  or  tramped  about  the  estate,  superin 
tending  the  necessary  repairs  and  the  gardening 
and  forestry. 

But  the  girl  went  about  her  usual  routine  very 
silently  and  making  no  comment,  only  she  seemed 
to  grow  a  little  pale  and  very  patently  sober,  and 
her  eyes  when  they  met  Ashton  Beresford's  were 
shadowy  and  bewildered  and  full  of  a  strange 
questioning  pain  that  caught  at  his  heart  and 
tore  it. 

Once — it  was  toward  the  week's  end — she  met 
him  alone  in  the  avenue.  He  was  on  his  way  to 
the  stables  to  join  the  Earl,  and  he  could  not  avoid 
stopping  to  speak  to  her. 

"You — you  have  not  seen — the  roses  of  late, 


i56  MONSIGNY 

monsieur,"  she  said.  "You — liked  them,  once. 
You — have  forgotten  them,  monsieur?  You  do 
not  care  for  roses  any  more?"  And  she  looked 
up  into  his  face  with  a  little  sad  smile. 

"Oh,  mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "how  could  they 
help  being  beautiful  as  ever,  with  the  care  they 
have?  And  how  might  a  man  forget  them, 
mademoiselle?" 

The  girl  laughed  softly — eagerly.  "Ah!"  said 
she,  very  low,  "that  sounds  like — like  the  old 
times,  monsieur,  before  this — strangeness  came 
upon  us  all,  so  lately.  What  is  it,  monsieur? 
What  is  it,  this  thing  that  hangs  over  Monsigny? 
Me,  I  am  cold  always" — she  drew  her  shoulders 
together  with  a  little  shiver — "and  my  heart,  it 
is  heavy  as  stone.  Father  goes  about  so  silent 
and  gloomy,  and  Mrs.  Marlowe,  too.  And  you, 
monsieur,  you  are  always  with  grandpere,  triste 
and  sober.  Ah,  what  is  it  that  has  come  to  us?" 

Beresford  smiled  down  into  her  face,  but  his 
heart  beat  fiercely. 

"Black  butterflies,  mademoiselle,"  said  he. 
"Clouds  in  the  soul;  but  clouds  pass  always,  and 
there'll  be  sunshine  soon  again.  There  shall 
be !"  he  cried  in  a  determined  tone.  "Alas,  I 
do  not  know  what  has  come  upon  us  all.  The 
Earl  says  that  something  is  going  to  happen. 


MONSIGNY  157 

It  may  be  so.  But  clouds  pass,  always,  always. 
Oh,  mademoiselle,  do  not  look  so  sad !  I 

cannot  bear  it.  I He  caught  himself 

up,  very  quickly,  for  his  voice  was  shaking, 
and  his  arms  were  going  out  toward  her, 
beyond  his  control.  He  made  as  if  he  would 
pass  her,  going  on  toward  the  stables,  but 
his  eyes  met  hers,  and  they  held  him  with 
chains.  He  raised  his  hands  a  little  way  and 
dropped  them  again  beside  him.  It  bore  a 
certain  air  of  surrender. 

"Come  and  walk  with  me,"  said  he.  "I  had 
meant  to  ride  with  the  Earl,  but — it  seems  so 
very  long  since  I  have  had  more  than  a  word 
from  you !  Come  and  walk  with  me.  We  will 
go  down  by  the  fountains." 

So  they  crossed  the  avenue,  and  descended 
the  curving  marble  steps  to  the  first  terrace. 
And  they  went  in  beside  the  narrow  pool  to  the 
splashing  Nereid  fountain,  and  sat  down  where 
Lord  Stratton  and  Mrs.  Marlowe  had  sat,  a  few 
days  before. 

But  when  they  were  come  there,  an  odd  con 
straint,  a  certain  shyness,  seemed  to  fall  upon  them 
both,  so  that  for  a  time  they  avoided  each  other's 
eyes  and  were  at  a  loss  for  words. 

"Have    you — lifted    the    calf    this    morning, 

I 
£ 


158      -  MONSIGNY 

monsieur,"  ventured  Isabeau  at  last,  "you  and 
grandpere  f  " 

"We  have,"  said  young  Beresford  proudly. 
"It  was  much  heavier  than  yesterday.  We  shall 
not  be  able  to  lift  it  much  longer — a  fortnight 
possibly."  He  broke  off  all  at  once  and  his  voice 
altered  in  tone. 

"Why,"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself,  "I  shan't  be 
here  so  long  as  that — I  hadn't  thought.  Why, 
I'll  be  gone  ! "  It  was  as  if  the  idea  were  quite 
new  to  him,  as  if  he  had  not  given  a  thought  to 
leaving  Monsigny. 

The  girl  made  a  little  low  exclamation  under 
her  breath,  and,  for  a  moment,  her  hands  pressed, 
one  upon  the  other,  in  her  lap  till  the  fingers 
whitened. 

"Gone?"  she  said  aloud.  "Gone  from — Mon 
signy?" 

"I  wasn't  asked  for  the  summer,  mademoiselle," 
said  Beresford,  laughing. 

"You  were  asked  for  so  long  as  you  might 
wish  to  stay,"  declared  Isabeau  de  Monsigny, 
and  she  would  not  smile.  "I  had  not — thought 
of  your  going  so  soon." 

"Nor  I,  mademoiselle,"  said  he  gently. 
"But  you  are  very  rash  to  say  that  I 
was  asked  for  as  long  as  I  might  choose  to 


MONSIGNY  159 

stay.  I  should  grow  gray  here,  old  and  gray 
and  infirm." 

"Not  infirm,"  said  she.  "Never  infirm,  I 
think.  You  will  grow  old  like  my  grandpere — 
and  that  is  a  good  way.  You  are  like  him  even 
now,  save  your  mouth  and  what  your  mouth 
betokens.  The  very  first  time  I  saw  you,  down 
in  Mentone,  I  thought  that  of  you — that  you 
were  like  my  grandpere,  and  so,  of  course,  like 
my  father.  It  was  at  the  Contessa  d'Ariosta's 
ball.  Do  you  remember?  Ah,  monsieur,  it  was 
ungallant  of  you !  I  saw  you  and  watched  you 
for  an  hour  before  you  even  noticed  me  and  had 
yourself  presented." 

"Wrong,  mademoiselle,"  said  young  Beresford. 
"Very  wrong.  A  man  may  watch  a  woman 
and  a  woman  never  know.  I  saw  you  when 
you  came  into  the  room.  I  was  there  only 
because  I  knew  you  were  to  come.  Oh,  wrong, 
mademoiselle  !  Why,  I'd  followed  you  to  Men- 
tone  from  Nice,  and  to  Nice  from  Paris. 
Saw  me  before  I  noticed  you,  indeed  !" 

"What  do  you — mean?"  cried  Isabeau  de 
Monsigny,  staring  at  him.  "Followed  me  from 
Paris  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?' ' 

"Just  that,"  said  he.  "I  saw  you  for  the  first 
time  at  the  Opera  in  Paris.  I  knew  who  you 


160  MONSIGNY 

must  be,  for  I'd  heard  of  you,  of  course.  There 
could  not  be  two  such  as  you  in  the  world.  I  had 
met  your  father,  too,  once  or  twice  in  London, 
but  long  ago.  I  watched  you  all  through  the 
opera — I  remember  it  was  'Sanson  et  Dalila' — 
and  afterward  I  followed  you  to  your  hotel;  it 
was  the  Bristol  in  the  Place  Vendome.  You 
walked  home,  it  was  such  a  little  distance,  and 
the  night  was  fine.  Then  I  went  back  to  the 
Caf 6  de  Paris  and  sat  for  two  hours  making  up  a 
plausible  excuse  for  calling  upon  Lord  Stratton 
the  next  day.  Alas !  the  next  day  you  went  on 
to  Nice,  and  I  after  you.  I  gave  up  a  trip  to 
India  to  do  it." 

He  gave  a  gentle  little  deprecatory  laugh,  as  if 
he  were  condoning  some  rather  amusing  bit  of 
folly,  but  Isabeau  de  Monsigny  leaned  forward, 
staring  at  the  moss-stained  Nereids,  and  her  hands 
clasped  and  twisted  in  her  lap. 

"Is  that — true?"  she  asked  after  a  moment, 
"quite  true?  It's  the  sort  of  thing  men  say  to 
women  to  please  them — the  sort  of  thing  one 
reads  in  a  book.  Is  it  really — true  ?' ' 

"Very  true,  mademoiselle,"  said  young  Beres- 
ford.  "Mad,  if  you  like,  but  very  true." 

"Mad?"  she  queried  as  if  she  did  not  under 
stand. 


MONSIGNY  161 

"I  maintain,"  said  Ashton  Beresford,  "that 
the  tides  are  mad  to  follow  the  moon  across  the 
earth  and  back  again.  What  good  is  it  going  to 
do  them?  They'll  never  reach  her.  They'll 
never  do  more  than  beat  their  heart  out  on  an 
unsympathetic  and  rock-bound  coast." 

"Then  why  follow  me,  monsieur?"  she  said  in  a 
low  tone.  "Why  didn't  you  go  to  India?" 

"Alas,  mademoiselle  !"  said  he,  sighing.  "Why 
don't  the  tides  learn  common  sense  ?" 

He  was  laughing,  half  in  mockery,  but  the 
girl  raised  her  head,  meeting  his  eyes  with  hers, 
wide  and  shadowy  and  purple.  The  laugh  ceased 
as  if  some  one  had  laid  a  hand  upon  his  throat, 
and  the  old  familiar  heart-throb  began  in  him, 
the  quickened  breath,  the  rising  flood  of  love  and 
tenderness  which  must,  in  a  moment  more,  make 
itself  evident.  He  tore  his  gaze  away  from  her, 
and  forced  his  thoughts  in  another  direction,  as 
he  had  so  often,  of  late,  to  do,  for  no  man  who 
loves  a  woman  with  all  his  strength  may  look  full 
into  her  eyes  and  remain  undisturbed. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Isabeau  de  Monsigny  timidly, 
and  she  still  watched  his  face.  "Monsieur,  I 
wish  I  knew — I  wish  I  might  ask — I  suppose  I 
am  too  curious — like  a  cat — but  there  is  some 
thing  strange  that  I  would  give  much  to  under- 


1 62  MONSIGNY 

stand.  It  is  about — you,  monsieur.  Sometimes 
you  are  happy  and— and  natural,  and  as  you 
used  to  be  in  Mentone.  Then,  all  at  once — it  is 
as  if  you  thought  of  something  that  you  had, 
for  a  little,  forgotten — you  turn  very  bitter  and — 
different.  It  is  not  just  black  butterflies,  no.  It 
is  more  serious  than  that.  Just  now,  a  moment 
ago,  you — changed.  Is  it  nothing  that  can  be 
helped,  monsieur?  Can  no  one " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  for  she  saw  that  he 
was  not  listening  to  her,  that  his  eyes  were  fixed 
beyond  her  upon  something  which  she  could  not 
see.  He  seemed  to  have  gone  a  little  pale,  and 
his  brows  were  drawn  together  and  his  lips  tight 
ened  into  a  hard  straight  line. 

She  turned  about,  wondering,  and  followed  the 
direction  of  his  gaze.  Some  one  was  walking 
alone  down  on  the  lower  esplanade  beside  the 
lagoon,  some  one  in  black  with  a  wide  hat — 
Mrs.  Marlowe.  The  girl  looked  swiftly  from 
Beresford's  face  to  the  distant  figure,  and  back 
again. 

"Monsieur  !"  she  cried  in  a  sharp  tone.  "Mon 
sieur  !  Is  that — it?"  she  said  presently,  half 
whispering.  "Is  it — she?  I  thought  the  first 
evening,  when  you  met  her —  Then  she 

stopped  again,  abruptly,  as  if  she  realised  that 


MONSIGNY  163 

she  had  no  right  to  say  such  things.  But  she 
stared  a  long  time  at  Ashton  Beresford's  frowning 
heedless  face. 

"I  think,"  she  said  after  a  time,  "that  we  would 
best  go  back  up  to  the  house.  Yes  ?  Grandpere 
will  be  waiting  to  ride  with  you.  And  me,  I  have 
many  things  to  do  this  morning.  Shall  we  go, 
monsieur?" 

"Eh,  what?"  said  young  Beresford.  "Oh,  yes, 
yes !  Just  as  you  like."  He  rose  with  a  sigh, 
and  they  mounted  the  steps  to  the  upper  terrace 
in  silence.  Beresford  was  too  preoccupied  to 
notice  that  the  girl  had,  all  at  once,  acquired  a 
certain  new  air  of  reserve,  almost  of  hauteur. 
The  sight  of  Mrs.  Marlowe  had — as  upon  another 
occasion,  in  the  rose  gardens — broken  roughly 
and  unpleasantly  in  upon  his  mood,  filmed  the 
yellow  glow  of  the  sunlight,  put  him  out  of  tem 
per  with  the  world. 

But  at  the  head  of  the  marble  steps  he  pulled 
himself  together  for  an  instant. 

"It  is  nothing,  mademoiselle,"  said  he  with 
a  wry  smile  that  could  not  seem  genuine. 
It  is  nothing  but  the  cloud  that  is  over 
us  all  here.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is.  Clouds 
pass." 

The  droop  of  the  girl's   averted  head  waked 


1 64  MONSIGNY 

in  him  again  a  sudden  little  gust  of  love  and 
tenderness. 

"Ah,  there'll  be  sunshine  again !"  he  cried 
half  fiercely.  "There  shall  be  !" 

One  of  her  hands — long  and  white,  blue-veined, 
pink-tipped,  rested  upon  the  corner  of  the  balus 
trade  beside  him. 

"There  shall  be,  mademoiselle !"  he  cried  once 
more,  and  he  took  the  hand  to  his  flushed  face 
and  held  it  there  against  his  lips. 

But  when  he  had  gone  away  toward  the  stables, 
Isabeau  de  Monsigny  stood  a  long  time  beside  the 
stair  balustrade  among  the  shrubbery,  with  her 
face  hidden  upon  her  arms — white  and  shaking. 


CHAPTER  X 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  next  morning  he  met  Isabeau  again,  by 
chance,  very  early.  He  had  just  finished  his 
breakfast  and  come  out  upon  the  south  terrace 
when  he  saw  her  leaving  the  chateau.  She  wore 
the  big  white  hat  which  had  shaded  her  that 
other  morning  in  the  rose  garden,  and  she  carried 
a  small  basket  on  one  arm.  A  great  wolfhound, 
ragged  and  dangerous-looking,  a  sullen  beast, 
marched  beside  her. 

"Bon  jour,  monsieur  !"  she  said  cheerfully,  when 
she  saw  him.  "You  are  up  early,  but  so  very 
early  !  Me,  I  am  going  upon  an  errand  of  mercy. 
Figure  to  yourself !  An  old  nounou  of  mine, 
who  lives  toward  St.  Cyr,  is  ill,  and  I  am  carrying 
her  certain  things  here  in  the  basket.  Do  you 
not  wish  you  were  a  nounou,  monsieur,  and  very 
old  and  ill,  and  that  you  lived  toward  St.  Cyr?" 

"I  do,"  said  Beresford  fervently.  "I  wish  I 
were  anything  you  like,  if  only  you  would  carry 
me  things  in  a  basket  and  come  to  see  me." 

"Who  knows?"  said  she,  "when  you  are  old 
167 


1 68  MONSIGNY 

— perhaps,"  and  she  nodded  her  beautiful  head 
very  encouragingly. 

"But  is  it  safe,"  he  demanded,  "all  alone,  so, 
on  the  public  roads?" 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  she,  "it  is  but  a  little 
way,  hardly  a  mile,  when  one  is  outside  the  gate. 
I  go  by  the  little  gate  to  the  north,  beyond  the 
gardens,  because  it  is  so  near.  Moreover,  the 
road  is  not  like  ordinary  roads — it  is  not  a  high 
road.  There  is  seldom  any  one  on  it,  because  the 
highroad  is  so  much  shorter  between  the  two 
villages.  My  road  is  little  more  than  a  sentier. 
Also,  for  protection,  I  have  Voyou  here."  She 
patted  the  great  hound  on  the  head,  and  he 
gave  a  sullen  growl,  moving  impatiently 
away. 

"Comment,  comment,  toil"  she  cried  in  surprise. 
"This  Voyou,  he  is  not  in  good  spirits,  ce  matin. 
HelasJ  monsieur,  he  has  the  tristesse  of  all  of  us 
here  at  Monsigny.  It  is  contagious.  No?"  She 
nodded  her  head  to  him,  laughing  over  her  shoul 
der,  and  moved  toward  the  gardens  around  the 
west  wing  of  the  chateau.  The  hound  followed 
at  her  heels. 

Beresford  strolled  on  to  the  stables  and  found 
the  Earl  there,  arguing  with  a  certain  green 
hunter  which  he  meant  himself  to  school,  and 


MONSIGNY  169 

which  he  was  attempting  to  put  over  a  low  bar 
at  a  leading-rein. 

The  two  amused  themselves  with  the  horse  for 
a  time,  and  when  they  tired  of  that  repaired  to 
the  dairy  and  lifted  the  long-suffering  heifer. 
After  about  an  hour  they  turned  back  toward 
the  chateau. 

"Where  is  Isabeau  this  morning?"  inquired 
the  Earl. 

"  She  has  gone  on  a  visit  to  an  old  nurse,  toward 
St.  Cyr,"  said  Beresford.  "She  is  taking  her  a 
small  basket  of  things,  I  believe.  She  had  a 
precious  ugly  looking  dog  with  her,  for  company." 

"  Dog  ? "  demanded  the  old  gentleman.  "  Dog  ? 
What  dog?" 

"  Hound  called  Voyou,"  said  the  other.  "  Sulky 
beast !  Snarled  when  she  patted  him." 

The  Earl  swore. 

"I  told  that  kennel  fool  not  to  let  Voyou  out, 
nor  to  let  any  one  near  him  !"  said  he.  "The  dog 
has  been  acting  very  odd  for  some  days.  I  don't 
think  it  can  be  the  weather,  for  the  weather  has 
not  been  particularly  warm.  I  suppose  it  is  all 
right,"  he  went  on,  frowning  rather  anxiously. 
"The  hound  has  known  Isabeau  since  he  was  a 
puppy,  and  she  has  perfect  control  of  him.  Still, 
I  don't  like  it.  I  wish  she  had  not  taken  him," 


i7o  MONSIGNY 

Beresford  glanced  sharply  at  the  old  man's 
troubled  face. 

"I  think,"  said  he,  "that  if  you  will  direct  me, 
I  will  just  go  and  meet  mademoiselle.  It  may 
be  all  right,  but— I'd  rather  be  sure." 

"Ah,  now,  that  would  be  a  very  good  thing !" 
said  the  Earl.  "Here,  take  this  dog-whip.  I 
expect  the  brute  will  be  quiet,  all  right,  but  it's 
best  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  You  know  the  little 
gate,  I  believe.  Just  turn  to  the  right  as  you  go 
out.  The  house  is  about  a  mile  away,  straight 
down  the  road,  past  a  little  round  point." 

Beresford  went  quickly  across  the  gardens 
and  out  through  the  little  gate  in  the  high  wall. 

The  road  outside  was,  as  Isabeau  had  said, 
scarcely  more  than  a  sentier.  It  was  narrow 
and  overgrown  with  grass — a  mere  country  lane. 
He  walked  along  it  for  half  a  mile,  under  the 
shade  of  the  overhanging  trees,  and  through 
lengths  of  open  where  the  dust  lay  white  like 
flour.  The  great  walls  of  the  Monsigny  estate 
ran  beside  him  for  a  space,  but  presently  turned 
off  at  a  sharp  angle,  and  there  was  open  rolling 
country  on  either  side,  dotted  with  trees  and  with 
little  white  plastered  red-roofed  cottages.  Far 
off  to  his  left  were  huddled  roofs  and  steeples, 
flanked  by  a  great  wood,  and  this  he  thought 


MONSIGNY 


171 


must  be  Versailles,  though  he  could  not  see  the 
palace. 

Then  at  last,  when  he  was  beginning  to  think 
that  the  round  point  of  which  the  old  Earl  had 
spoken  could  not  be  far  ahead,  he  heard  the 
barking  and  yelping  of  a  dog.  The  road  curved 
before  him  and  trees  stood  close  beside  it,  so  that 
he  could  see  only  a  little  way,  but  he  quickened 
his  pace,  knowing  that  Isabeau  must  be  just 
around  the  bend. 

"The  hound  is  coursing  a  rabbit  or  something 
of  the  sort,"  he  said  to  himself.  But,  as  he  rounded 
the  curve,  he  saw  that  the  great  dog  was  not 
coursing,  but  had  treed  something,  and  was 
giving  tongue  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  leaping  up 
into  the  air  and  snapping  in  a  very  strange  fashion. 
Sometimes,  it  took  a  little  run  away  from  the 
tree  and  back  again,  or  round  in  a  great  circle, 
head  upward  and  barking  furiously. 

Beresford  halted  for  an  instant,  to  watch  the 
hound's  strange  actions.  He  had  never  seen 
a  dog  behave  so  over  treed  game.  Then,  all  at 
once,  he  dashed  forward  with  a  sudden  cry  of 
amazement  and  horror,  for  he  had  looked  up  into 
the  low  branches  of  the  tree  and  had  seen  that 
Isabeau  de  Monsigny  clung  there  but  a  little  dis 
tance  from  the  ground,  and,  furthermore,  that  the 


172  MONSIGNY 

branch  upon  which  she  stood  swayed  and  drooped 
with  her  weight. 

As  he  ran  he  threw  from  him  the  dog-whip, 
with  its  leash,  for  he  knew  that  it  was  useless, 
and  he  caught  up  from  the  roadside  a  great  stone 
of  five  or  six  pounds'  weight.  He  had  looked 
about  swiftly  for  a  stick,  or  for  anything  with 
which  to  strike  a  heavy  blow,  but  the  smooth 
white  road  lay  bare  and  empty,  and  the  turf  at 
its  flanks  empty  as  well. 

"Mademoiselle,  mademoiselle!"  he  called  as  he 
ran.  "Courage,  mademoiselle !  Hold  on  a  little 
longer,  just  a  moment  longer!"  and  her  voice 
came  back  to  him  promptly,  faint  and  strained, 
but  very  brave. 

"Quick,  monsieur !  Quick  as  you  may !  I 
cannot  hold  long.  Quick,  monsieur!" 

The  dog  had  halted  suddenly  at  Beresford's 
call,  and  stood  beside  the  tree,  head  down  and 
foam  trickling  from  the  corners  of  its  mouth. 
The  ragged  hair  about  its  neck  and  shoulders 
bristled.  Then,  with  a  little  eager  whine,  it 
made  straight  at  him,  and  Beresford  hurled  the 
stone  with  both  hands. 

It  did  not  strike  the  animal  upon  the  head  or 
full  in  the  breast,  as  he  had  meant,  but  struck 
a  glancing  blow  on  one  shoulder,  and  the  hound's 


MONSIGNY  173 

impetus  carried  him  by,  thrown  out  of  course,  but 
not  badly  injured.  There  was  no  time  to  look 
for  another  stone,  for  the  animal  turned  sharply 
with  a  snarl  of  rage,  and  came  back. 

By  chance,  young  Beresford  was  wearing  a 
pair  of  unusually  thick-soled  and  heavy  boots, 
for,  if  the  morning  were  cool,  he  had  meant  to 
take  a  long  tramp  over  the  estate,  and  it  was  this 
chance  which  probably  saved  both  his  own  life 
and  that  of  Isabeau  de  Monsigny,  for,  as  the 
maddened  animal  sprang  for  him,  he  kicked 
with  all  his  great  strength  and  struck  full  under 
its  jaw,  so  that  it  turned  quite  over  and  fell, 
snarling  and  twitching,  upon  its  back  in  the 
dusty  road. 

The  beast's  jaw  was  undoubtedly  broken,  for 
no  bone  could  withstand  such  a  terrific  blow, 
but  the  vitality  of  any  animal  when  maddened 
is  something  amazing,  and  in  an  instant  the 
hound  was  on  its  feet  and  again  springing  for 
Beresford' s  throat.  This  time  his  kick  was  not 
swift  enough  and,  missing  the  head,  struck  under 
the  lean  body. 

The  girl,  watching  from  the  tree  above,  screamed 
once,  but,  even  as  she  screamed,  she  saw  young 
Beresford' s  great  arms  go  out  forward,  and  his 
hands  settle  about  the  animal's  throat,  forcing 


174  MONSIGNY 

it  backward  so  that  once  more  it  fell  to  the  ground, 
this  time  with  the  man  close  above.  And  there, 
writhing  and  struggling  in  the  white  dust,  she 
saw  an  almost  unbelievable  feat  of  strength 
performed,  for  the  man,  with  his  hands  set  in 
a  vice-like  grip  about  the  hairy  throat  below 
him,  slowly  choked  the  great  mad  hound  to  death, 
and  when  he  rose  at  last  to  his  feet  there  was  only 
a  quivering  carcass  stretched  across  the  road. 

Of  what  happened  immediately  afterward 
she  knew  nothing  till  she  found  herself  lying 
upon  the  turf  by  the  roadside,  and  young  Beres- 
ford  on  his  knees  beside  her.  She  had  fainted 
quite  away  once  the  danger  was  over,  and  Beres- 
ford  had  turned  just  in  time  to  catch  her  in  his 
arms  as  she  slipped  from  the  low  branches. 

She  lay  for  a  long  time  silent,  looking  up  from 
shadowy  half-closed  eyes  into  the  man's  face, 
and  his  face  was  very  white  and  still,  and  the 
brows  were  drawn  a  bit  together,  and  his  breathing 
came  fast  and  stormily. 

"Oh,  monsieur !"  she  said  at  last  in  a  little 
low  murmur.  "Monsieur,  you  were  just  in  time. 
I  could  have  clung  to  the  tree  no  longer.  You 
saved  my  life,  monsieur." 

"If  I  had  not  been  in  time !"  he  whispered 
with  strange  little  breaks  between  the  words. 


'  She  found  herself  lying  upon  the  turt    by  the    roadside,  and   young    Beresford   on 
his  knees  beside  her  " 


MONSIGNY  175 

"Oh,  heart  of  my  soul,  if  I  had  not  been  in  time  !" 
But  the  girl  raised  one  slim  hand  and  laid  it 
upon  his  cheek.  Under  it  the  cheek  flamed 
suddenly  crimson  and  paled  again,  and  he  caught 
the  hand  in  both  his  own  and  held  it  to  his  lips, 
kissing  it  as  if  he  would  never  leave  off.  The 
girl's  eyelids  fluttered  and  closed.  The  great 
white  hat  had  fallen  backward  as  Beresford  had 
laid  her  upon  the  turf,  so  that  it  made  a  sort  of 
pillow  for  her  head,  and  the  wonderful  pale  hair — 
the  soul  of  gold — had  slipped  a  little  from  its 
bonds  and  lay  in  soft,  loosened  coils  about  her 
flushed  face. 

"Oh !"  cried  the  man,  "I  love  you  so  that  I 
cannot  think  nor  speak — so  that  my  heart  shakes 
me  from  head  to  foot !  I  love  you  more  than 
any  one  in  all  the  world  ever  loved  anything ! 
If  only  I  could  tell  you  how  I  love  you  !  You  are 
the  most  beautiful  thing  that  a  man  could  dream  ! 
Ah,  my  heart,  if  you  had  been — if  I  had  come 
too  late  I  should  not  have  lived,  for  I  cannot 
live  without  you." 

He  bent  over  her,  kneeling,  and  held  her  head 
between  his  two  hands,  as  it  lay  on  the  soft  turf. 
Coils  and  strands  of  the  soul  of  gold  burned  against 
his  fingers.  And  the  girl  put  up  her  other  hand 
and,  with  the  two,  drew  down  his  head,  looking 


1 76  MONSIGNY 

very  steadily  and  gravely  into  his  eyes,  till  his 
face  was  against  her  own,  and  he  kissed  her 
mouth  with  a  quick  catching  breath. 

"Oh,  Lord  of  my  heart,"  said  she,  against  his 
lips,  "there  is  no  one  in  all  my  world  but  you ! 
Didn't  you  know?  Ah,  didn't  you  know?" 
Then  after  a  long  time,  "Dearest,"  she  said,  "was 
there  a  reason  why  you — why  you  avoided  me 
for  so  long — why  you  would  never  be  alone  with 
me,  but  went  about  so  soberly  and  tristef  For 
I  knew  long  ago  that  you — cared  just  a — a  little, 
pent  etre.  That  first  evening  by  the  lagoon,  I 
knew,  and  the  morning  in  the  rose  garden  I 
knew.  I  think  I  knew  even  last  winter  in 
Mentone.  Was  there  a  reason,  mon  coeurf  " 

Beresford  took  her  two  hands,  so  slender  and 
white  and  pink-tipped,  into  his,  and  held  them 
against  his  cheek,  and  he  smiled  down  upon  her 
with  a  certain  resolute  tightening  of  the  lips,  a 
certain  squaring  of  the  strong  jaw. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "there  was  a  reason.  I  thought 
there  was  a  reason.  Do  not  ask  me  it.  But  I 
see  now  that  there  could  be  no  reason  strong 
enough  to  hold  us  apart.  I  see  now  that  I  was 
foolish,  frightened  by  a  phantom.  There  can  be 
nothing  cruel  enough  to  part  us.  Loveliest,  we 
can  defy  the  world  now !" 


MONSIGNY  177 

He  lifted  her  to  her  feet  and,  without  looking 
backward  at  the  thing  which  lay  stretched  across 
the  dusty  road,  they  turned  their  faces  toward 
Chateau  Monsigny. 

"Lord  of  my  heart,  we  can  defy  the  world 
now,"  said  she. 


CHAPTER  XI 


CHAPTER  XI 

LORD  STRATTON — they  found  him  alone  on  the 
south  terrace  with  a  book — turned  very  pale 
when  he  was  told  of  what  had  occurred,  and 
caught  his  daughter  to  him,  suddenly,  with  one 
arm,  looking  into  her  face  as  if,  all  at  once,  he 
realised  how  dear  to  him  she  was. 

"Isabeau  owes  her  life  to  you,"  he  said  unstead 
ily  to  young  Beresford,  "and  I  owe  you  more  than 
I  owe  to  any  one  else  in  the  world.  There  is  noth 
ing  I  can  say  to  thank  you,  and  nothing  I  can  do 
to  even  the  obligation." 

Beresford  looked  at  Isabeau  de  Monsigny,  and 
Isabeau,  turning  suddenly  crimson,  looked  away. 

"Why — why,  as  for  that,  sir,"  he  said,  "yes, 
you  can.  You  can — give  her  to  me,  sir.  She 
— says  she  is  willing  to  come,  and — well,  I  love 
her  very  dearly  and — all  that,  you  know.  Of 
course,  it  is  a  great  deal  to  ask,  isn't  it?" 

Lord  Stratton  looked  into  his  daughter's  face, 
laughing  gently. 

"He  is  better  at  saving  lives  than  at  making 
speeches,  this  young  man,"  said  he.  "But  that 

181 


182  MONSIGNY 

is  quite  as  well.  I  have  been  hoping,  for  some 
time,  that  you  two  would  decide  you  wished  to 
many." 

He  looked  over  his  daughter's  head,  still  holding 
her  with  one  arm,  at  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the 
flagstoned  terrace.  Mrs.  Marlowe  was  coming 
up  from  the  avenue.  He  called  to  her,  and  she 
moved  a  little  way  toward  them. 

"I  want  you  to  be  the  first  to  hear  some  very  good 
news,"  said  he.  "My  daughter  Isabeau  is  to  marry 
the  Honourable  Ashton  Beresford.  He  saved 
her,  this  morning,  from  a  very  horrible  death, 
and  he  demands  herself  as  a  reward.  Won't  you 
offer  them  your  congratulations,  and  me  as  well  ? 
I  think  I  am  as  pleased  about  it  as  they  are." 

But  Mrs.  Marlowe  stood  silent,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  little  group,  wide-eyed 
and  pale.  And  her  fingers  twisted  and  shook 
at  her  breast.  Then,  all  at  once,  she  turned, 
with  a  low  cry,  and  ran  into  the  open  door  of  the 
chateau. 

Beresford  looked  after  her,  frowning  and  tight 
lipped,  but  Isabeau  and  Lord  Stratton  gave  voice 
to  their  amazement. 

"What — what  in  the  world  is  the  matter?" 
cried  the  girl.  "Why  should  she  act  so  ?  Father, 
what  is  the  matter  with  her?" 


MONSIGNY  183 

"God  knows  !"  said  the  Viscount  in  a  wondering, 
shocked  tone.  "God  knows!  She  has  acted 
very  strangely  of  late,  several  times.  What  can 

she Oh,  she  is  very  nervous,  and  not  at  all 

well,  and  she  has  had  an  unhappy  life.  I  suppose 
the  sight  of  other  people's  happiness  is  too  much 
for  her.  We  must  make  allowances.  She  will 
feel  differently  after  a  little.  That  was  most 
curious.  I  do  not  understand." 

Mrs.  Marlowe  did  not  appear  at  luncheon, 
much  to  the  relief  of  the  others — save,  perhaps, 
Lord  Stratton,  who  was  anxious  about  her;  but 
they  told  the  Earl  what  had  happened  on  the 
road  to  St.  Cyr,  and  that  Isabeau  was  to  be  mar 
ried  to  Ashton  Beresford.  The  old  gentleman 
was  so  delighted  he  could  hardly  contain  him 
self,  and  became  quite  humorous  in  his  elephan 
tine  fashion.  He  brought  a  hectic  flush  to  the 
unaccustomed  cheek  of  Mme.  de  Brissal  by  insist 
ing  upon  kissing  her  in  honour  of  the  occasion, 
after  having  nearly  annihilated  Isabeau  in  his 
bear's  embrace.  And  he  drank  to  the  health 
and  happiness  of  the  two  young  people  till  any 
other  man  but  this  iron  veteran  would  have  been 
under  the  table. 

After  luncheon  Beresford  went  up  to  his  rooms 
in  search  of  a  mislaid  pipe.  He  came  upon  Mrs. 


i84  MONSIGNY 

Marlowe  in  the  upper  corridor,  and  would  have 
turned  into  his  room  with  only  a  nod,  but  she 
followed  him,  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"Is  that  true?"  she  demanded  quickly,  with 
her  back  against  the  door.  Her  face  was  very 
white,  and  her  eyes  burned.  They  seemed  much 
larger  than  common. 

"That  I  am  to  marry  Is — Mademoiselle  de 
Monsigny?"  he  asked.  "Oh,  yes,  that  is  true." 

"After  what  I  said  to  you  last  evening?"  she 
persisted.  "After  my  refusing  to  release  you?" 

Beresford  turned  upon  her  impatiently. 

"I  deny  your  right  to  hold  me  to  anything," 
said  he.  "Must  we  go  over  all  the  argument 
again?  I  begin  to  tire  of  it.  You  are  to  marry 
another  man.  That  fact,  in  itself,  releases  me." 
He  felt  a  curious  sense  of  impotence  in  speaking 
to  her.  It  was  as  if  he  shouted  to  a  deaf  woman 
or  argued  with  some  one  who  did  not  understand 
his  language.  Men  must  arrive  at  conclusions, 
or  determine  a  course  of  conduct,  by  reason ;  and, 
being  a  man,  he  felt  strangely  helpless  before  this 
woman  to  whom,  in  her  overwrought  state, 
reason  made  no  appeal  whatever.  He  realised, 
as  he  had  not  realised  before,  her  oddly  dual 
nature,  with  its  wholesome,  sweet,  womanly  side, 
normal  and  tender  if  weak,  which  could  be  so 


MONSIGNY  185 

altered  under  the  obsession  of  jealousy  that 
she  was  left  a  demon,  unreasoning  and 
reckless. 

His  utter  helplessness  angered  him. 

"  Oh,  this  is  perfect  nonsense  !"  he  cried  sharply. 
"  You  are  trying  to  make  us  both  play  an  absurd 
melodrama.  I,  for  one,  refuse  to  play.  I  have 
as  good  a  right  to  marry  as  have  you — or  any  one 
else." 

But  the  woman  came  up  closer  to  him,  looking 
into  his  face  with  those  great  burning  unnatural 
eyes. 

"Oh,  be  careful,  Tony!"  she  said,  very  low. 
"For  Heaven's  sake,  be  careful!  I — I  warned 
you,  last  night,  that  I  was  not  responsible  for 
myself  when  that — thing  was  stabbing  me 
through.  I  warned  you  not  to  try  me  too  far, 
but  you've  done  it.  You've  done  it  as  quickly  as 
ever  you  could.  Now,  have  a  care  !  I  love  you  ! 
Good  God,  how  I  love  you,  sometimes !  And  no 
other  woman  shall  have  you.  If  I  didn't  know 
that  you  would  drive  me  mad  in  a  week  with  your 
coldness,  if  I  thought  there  was  any  least  spark 
of  love  for  me  left  in  you,  I  should  throw  over 
Lord  Stratton  and  make  you  marry  me.  I  shall 
never  have  you  for  my  own,  Tony,  but  neither 
shall  that  girl,  for  I'm  going  to  stop  it,  here  and 


i86  MONSIGNY 

now.  I'm  going  to  tell  them  about  you  and— 
and  Mrs. — Travers." 

Beresford  gave  a  short  laugh  of  utter  amaze 
ment. 

"You  are  going  to  give  yourself  away?"  he 
demanded,  still  laughing.  "Nonsense!  Do  you 
suppose  for  an  instant  that  Lord  Stratton  would 
marry  you  if  he  knew  you  were  Mrs.  Travers? 
Besides,  you  would  not  hurt  me  at  all.  They 
know  that  I  figured  in  that  affair — both  Lord 
Stratton  and  the  Earl  know  it.  You're  mad, 
Margaret!" 

"I  am  not  Mrs.  Travers,"  she  cried,  in  a  fierce, 
low  tone.  "I  am  Mrs.  Marlowe,  and  they  shall 
never  know  that  I  was  divorced,  for  you  have 
promised  that  you  would  not  tell.  You'll  not 
break  your  promise,  Tony.  You'll  not  betray 
me,  whatever  I  may  say.  You  never  broke  a 
promise  in  your  life,  and  you'd  no  more  think  of 
betraying  a  woman  than  you  would  think  of 
murdering  her.  Oh,  I  have  you,  Tony !  I  have 
you,  fast  and  strong  !  I  shall  tell  them  that  you're 
not  a  fit  man  to  marry  Isabeau  de  Monsigny.  I 
shall  tell  them  that  you  are  bound  to  a  divorced 
woman  and  not  free  to  marry,  and  you  dare  not 
deny  it,  for  you  can't  betray  me.  Oh,  I  have 
you,  my  friend !  I  can  never  marry  you,  but  I 


MONSIGNY  187 

can  wreck  you  !  Tony  !  Tony  !  Tony  !  Could 
you  not  love  me  a  little — just  the  least  in  the 
world?  Have  you  no  little  bit  of  tenderness  left 
for  me?  See!  I'll  throw  over  this  match  with 
Lord  Stratton.  We  can  go  away  together  and  be 
married.  Tony,  couldn't  you  learn  to  love  me 
again — just  a  little,  just  a  little,  boy?" 

She  had  fallen  over  forward  against  him,  catch 
ing  him  with  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
her  face  was  hidden  upon  his  breast.  Her  voice 
broke  into  great  racking,  painful  sobs,  and  he  felt 
all  her  frail  body  shake  with  them. 

He  put  her  from  him  almost  roughly,  staring 
into  her  eyes,  and  his  own  were  wide  with  amaze 
ment  and  horror  and  unbelief. 

"You'll  not  do  such  a  thing,  Margaret?"  he 
cried  in  a  whisper.  "You'll  not  dare  do  such  a 
thing!  Great  God,  it's  unbelievable;  it's  mon 
strous  !  No,  no !  No  sane  woman  could  grovel 
so  low.  I  won't  believe  it." 

"  I  am  not  sane,  Tony,"  she  said,  dully,  and  her 
eyes  fronted  him  unafraid.  "I  am  quite  mad 
sometimes,  when — when  I  think  of  certain  things. 
Yes,  I  shall  do  it,  and  I  am  going  to  do  it  now. 
I  am  quite  desperate.  Nothing  you  can  say  will 
stop  me.  I  know  just  how  shameful  and  low  and 
contemptible  I  am,  but  I  could  no  more  stop  than 


i88  MONSIGNY 

any  poor  cornered  animal  could  lie  still,  to  be  done 
to  death  without  fighting." 

Beresford  sprang  forward,  catching  her  by 
the  arm.  "Stop!"  he  cried  hoarsely.  "Stop! 
You  must  not  go.  You  must  not  be  so  mad.  I 
tell  you,  you  would  die  of  the  shame  of  it,  after 
ward.  You  must  not  do  it.  By  Heaven,  if  you 
do " 

"What,  Tony?"  she  asked,  facing  him  again. 

"I  shall  tell  them,  on  my  part,"  said  he  slowly, 
"just  who  and  what  you  are,  and  why  you  are 
masquerading  here  under  a  stolen  name.  Two 
can  play  at  your  game,  my  lady.  If  you've  a 
mind  to  crawl  so  low,  I  shall  do  a  bit  of  crawling, 
too.  Tell  a  word  of  what  you  have  been  threat 
ening,  and  I  shall  expose  you." 

"No,  you  won't !"  she  cried  swiftly,  and  she 
came  up  to  him  once  more  till  her  face  was  close 
to  his  and  her  eyes  burned  into  his  eyes. 

"No,  you  won't,  Tony !"  said  she.  "Ruin  a 
woman  ?  No,  not  you.  Some  men  might,  but  you 
won't.  Try  it,  my  friend.  Try  to  say  the  words 
and  your  tongue  won't  move.  Ah,  I  know  you, 
Tony,  better  than  you  know  yourself.  You'd 
let  fifty  women  wreck  your  life,  vilify  you,  lie 
about  you,  ruin  you,  but  you'd  never  turn  on  one 
of  them  !  Try  it,  Tony,  try  it." 


MONSIGNY  189 

Then  in  a  moment,  and  before  he  could  stop 
her,  she  had  slipped  out  of  the  room,  closing  the 
door  after  her.  Beresford  dropped  into  a  chair, 
covering  his  face  with  shaking  hands. 


CHAPTER  XII 


CHAPTER  XII 

How  long  he  sat  there  he  did  not  know;  it  was 
probably  not  more  than  a  few  minutes,  that  might 
have  been  hours,  but  he  was  roused  by  a  knocking 
at  the  door.  A  lackey  entered,  at  his  word, 
saying  that  Lord  Stratton  wished  to  see  him  on 
the  south  terrace. 

"She'll  not  do  it!"  cried  Beresford.  "She'll 
not  dare.  It  was  a  wretched  trick  to  get  a 
promise  out  of  me.  Nonsense !  Of  course,  she 
won't  do  it." 

He  ran  down  the  stairs,  laughing  at  himself 
for  having  given  the  thing  a  moment's  credence, 
but  his  heart  beat  fast  for  all  that. 

On  the  south  terrace  he  found  Mrs.  Marlowe 
and  Isabeau  de  Monsigny  and  Lord  Stratton. 
The  Viscount  was  walking  nervously  back  and 
forth,  smiting  his  hands  together.  He  frowned 
a  bit,  and  his  eyes  were  anxious  and  a  little 
appealing  as  he  turned  to  meet  young  Beresford. 

"Ashton,"  said  he,  "I  sent  for  you  because 
Mrs.  Marlowe  has — has  said  that  she  knows  some 
thing  very — serious  about  you,  something  which 


194  MONSIGNY 

must  prevent  your  marriage  with  Isabeau." 
He  paused  a  moment,  looking  toward  the  woman, 
and  his  eyes  seemed  to  grow  more  anxious,  more 
pained  and  appealing.  "I  wanted  you  to  be 
present  when  she  tells  this  because  I  am  certain 
that  you  can  explain.  I  want  to  say  that  I  have 
perfect  confidence  in  you — perfect.  It  may  be — 
it  may  be  that  Mrs.  Marlowe  has  been  misin 
formed.  I  am  certain  that  you  can  explain." 

Beresford  looked  once  at  Margaret  Marlowe, 
and  from  her  to  Isabeau.  The  girl's  face  was 
very  pale,  but  she  smiled  a  little,  scornfully,  and 
her  purple  eyes  were  tender  and  full  of  trust. 
There  was  no  doubt  or  fear  in  them.  Then  he 
drew  a  quick  sigh. 

"I  am  ready  to  hear  what  Mrs. — Mrs.  Marlowe 
has  to  tell,"  said  he. 

The  woman  turned  toward  Lord  Stratton  and 
began  speaking  at  once.  Beresford  noted  that 
her  face  was  cold  and  still — she  was  holding  her 
self  well  in  hand — but  that  the  hands  hanging 
at  her  sides  shook  violently,  and  that  her  chin 
trembled  sometimes  so  that  she  had  to  pause, 
between  words,  to  steady  it. 

"  I  think  you  know,  Lord  Stratton,"  she  said  in 
a  low  voice,  "that  no  one  could  regret  more  than 
I  regret  being  forced  to — to  make  a  scene  at 


MONSIGNY  195 

your  house,  to  denounce  one  of  your  guests,  but 
I  have  no  choice.  It  is  precisely  because  I  am 
one  of  your  guests,  because  I  owe  you  a  debt  of 
hospitality,  that  I  must  not  stand  idly  by  while 
a  great  wrong  is  being  done  you.  If — if  I  should 
see  a  burglar  attempting  to  steal  the  Monsigny 
plate  it  would  be  my  duty  immediately  to  tell 
you.  It  is  still  more  my  duty  to  tell  you  when 
I  see  any  one  attempting  to  steal  what  is  far  more 
dear  to  you.  This — this  man  is  here  on  false 
pretenses.  He  has  no  right  to  marry  your  daugh 
ter  or  any  other  woman — save  one.  He  is  not 
free —  Lord  Stratton  would  have  interrupted 

her,  but  she  raised  her  hand  to  him,  and  went  on, 
speaking  rapidly,  and  her  eyes  were  wide  and 
dark  and  defiant,  fixed  upon  young  Beresford's 
face. 

"He  is  bound  to  another  woman,"  said  she, 
"a  woman  who  was  divorced  by  her  husband 
on  this  man's  account.  Yes,  you  know  of  the 
affair;  you  spoke  of  it,  once.  The  woman  is  a 
Mrs. — Mrs.  Travers.  You  thought,  and  other 
people  thought,  that  this  man  was  innocent,  that 
he  was  wrongfully  dragged  into  the  case,  but 
that  is  not  so.  He  was  not  innocent.  When 
the  thing  was  over,  he  promised  to  marry  the 
woman,  Mrs. — Travers.  He  told  her  that  the 


196  MONSIGNY 

rest  of  his  life  was  hers,  that  he  would  never 
marry  any  one  else.  Then  he  went  away.  That 
is  the  sort  of  man  you  were  giving  your  daughter 
to,  Lord  Stratton.  That  is  the  sort  of  man  you 
were  welcoming  in  your  house,  a  man  who  com 
promised  another's  wife,  and  then,  when  the 
woman  was  cast  adrift,  ran  away  lest  he  should 
have  to  marry  her!" 

"How  do  you  know  all  this?"  demanded  a 
gruff,  harsh  voice  behind  her.  "How  do  you 
happen  to  have  such  a  quantity  of  special  knowl 
edge  about  the  Travers  divorce  affair?" 

The  woman  swung  about,  white  and  gasping, 
and  it  was  the  Earl  of  Strope  who  spoke.  His 
bushy  white  eyebrows  were  drawn  down  and 
together,  and  the  keen  old  eyes  flashed  at  her. 
For  a  moment  she  was  off  her  guard,  shaking  in 
a  panic,  for  she  feared  the  old  Earl  more  than  any 
man  living ;  but  she  was  herself  again,  directly. 

"I  know  poor  Mrs.  Travers,  since  you  ask,  sir," 
she  said  with  a  certain  cold  dignity.  "She  has  a 
little  villa,  near  Tours,  where  she  has  hidden  a 
broken  heart  and  a  broken  life  from  the  world. 
I  visit  her  there  sometimes,  for  we  were  friends 
many  years  ago — dear  friends.  She  has  been  a 
sinful  woman,  if  you  like,  but  she  has  been  well 
punished  for  it,  and  I,  for  one,  will  not  turn 


MONSIGNY  197 

against  her."  She  looked  again  toward  young 
Beresford,  and  her  voice  mounted  a  bit.  It  was 
wonderful  acting. 

"But,"  she  cried,  "if  that  poor  woman  was 
sinful,  what  of  this  man — betrayer  and  coward ! 
Oh,  it  is  quite  time  that  some  one  showed  him  for 
what  he  is."  She  turned  to  Lord  Stratton, 
lowering  her  voice.  "When  I  came  here,"  she 
said,  "I  did  not  know  that  this  person  was  to  be 
your  guest.  You  told  me  of  it  soon  after  my 
arrival,  and,  if  you  chance  to  remember,  I  had 
some  difficulty  in  hiding  my  feelings.  I  made 
an  excuse  for  losing  my  countenance.  After 
ward,  I  did  not  wish  to  make  a  scene — I  thought 
it  better  not  to  do  so,  for  it  would  be  very  unpleas 
ant  for  all  of  you.  I  did  not  know  his  object  in 
coming  here.  To-day,  when  you  told  me  that 
he  was  to  marry  Isabeau,  I  could  remain  silent 
no  longer.  I  owed  it  to  you  to  tell  what 
I  knew.  That  is  all,  I  think,  Lord  Stratton. 
This  man  is  not  fit  or  free  to  marry  your 
daughter." 

Lord  Stratton  drew  his  hand  across  his  brow, 
and  his  usually  strong  and  iron  face  was  a  mask 
of  amazed  incredulous  horror. 

"Ashton!  Ashton!"  he  said  appealingly,  and 
his  voice  shook.  "This  cannot  be  true.  It  can- 


198  MONSIGNY 

not.  I  will  not  believe  it.  She — she  must  be 
wrong.  Tell  us  that  it  is  not  true.  Explain  it, 
Ashton  !  Tell  us  it  is  not  true  !"  His  hand  upon 
young  Beresford's  arm  shook  like  the  voice. 

"I  tell  you,"  cried  Beresford  fiercely,  "it  is  all 

— all "  His  eyes  met  the  woman's  eyes,  and 

she  moved  closer  to  him,  white-faced  and  somber. 

"Can  you  deny  it,  Mr.  Beresford?"  she  said, 
very  low.  "Can  you  deny  it  ?  Think  a  moment ! 
Either  it  is  true  or  I  am  the  most  contemptible 
thing  in  all  the  world.  Either  I  have  been  speak 
ing  the  truth  or  I  am  what  you  would  call,  if  I  were 
a  man,  a  blackguard,  and  worse.  Are  you  not 
bound  to  that  woman?  Did  you  not  promise  to 
marry  her?  And  has  she  not  refused  to  release 
you  from  your  promise?  Are  you  free,  Mr. 
Beresford?" 

A  great  wave  of  crimson  spread  up  over  Beres 
ford's  face  and  ebbed  again,  leaving  him  very 
pale.  His  mind  moved  with  a  certain  unnatural 
swiftness,  and  he  saw  clearly  what  was  facing  him 
— the  utter  and  lasting  ruin  of  all  that  made  his 
life  dear.  Everything  in  him  ached  and  struggled 
to  burst  out  in  denunciation  of  the  monstrous 
charges  this  woman  made,  but  he  was  curiously 
helpless.  His  tongue  stammered  and  would  not 
form  the  words.  He  remembered  dully  what  the 


MONSIGNY  199 

woman  had  said  to  him  up  in  his  room.  "  Try  it, 
my  friend !  Try  to  say  the  words  and  your  tongue 
won't  move.  Ah,  I  know  you,  Tony,  better  than 
you  know  yourself.  You'd  let  fifty  women  wreck 
your  life,  vilify  you,  lie  about  you,  ruin  you,  but 
you'd  never  turn  on  one  of  them  !  Try  it,  Tony, 
try  it!" 

Yes,  she  had  known  him  better  than  he  knew 
himself.  He  could  not  turn  on  her.  He  was,  in 
some  strange  way,  physically  incapable  of  it. 

"Can  you  deny  it,  Mr.  Beresford?"  she  asked 
again,  close  to  his  face. 

Beresford  dropped  his  head  and  made  a  queer 
little  helpless  gesture  with  his  two  hands. 

"I  cannot  deny  it,"  said  he. 

But  Isabeau  de  Monsigny  ran  forward,  brushing 
past  the  other  woman,  and  caught  him  by  the 
shoulders,  looking  into  his  eyes. 

"It  is  not  true!"  she  cried  fiercely.  "It  is  a 
frightful,  horrible  lie !  I  won't  believe  it.  No 
one  can  make  me  believe  it.  Oh,  say  it  is  a  lie  ! 
Tell  them  it  isn't  true.  Why  do  you  stand 
there,  silent  ?  Do  you  want  to  break  my  heart  ? 
Tell  them  it  isn't  true  !" 

"I  cannot  deny  it,"  said  Beresford  again,  and 
his  voice  sounded  very  tired.  There  was  no 
life  in  it.  He  turned  about  to  Lord  Stratton, 


200  MONSIGNY 

and  the  Viscount  raised  a  haggard,  sad  face  to 
him. 

"You  cannot  deny  this?"  he  asked,  wistfully. 

" No,"  said  Beresford.     "  No,  I  cannot  deny  it." 

"Then,"  said  Lord  Stratton,  "then " 

"I  know  what  you  would  say,"  broke  in  the 
younger  man,  "I — shall  be  leaving  within  the 
hour,  for  Paris."  He  took  the  girl's  hands  from 
his  shoulders,  not  looking  at  her,  and  put  her  very 
gently  away  from  him.  Then  he  bowed,  and 
went  quickly  indoors. 

He  packed  the  two  large  Gladstone  bags  that  he 
had  brought  with  him  to  Monsigny  and  rang  for 
a  servant  to  take  them  down.  And  he  asked  the 
servant  to  have  a  trap  of  some  sort  sent  around 
from  the  stables  to  drive  him  to  Versailles.  Then 
he  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  an  open  window,  with 
his  head  in  his  hands,  silent  and  motionless,  for 
a  very  long  time. 

The  rolling  of  wheels  on  the  gravel  drive  beneath 
his  window  roused  him  at  last.  He  looked  out 
and  saw  that  it  was  the  trap  come  to  take  him  to 
the  station,  and  he  gathered  up  his  hat  and  gloves 
and  went  down. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  he  had  to  step  aside 
to  allow  some  one  to  come  up  the  last  of  the 
winding  turns.  In  an  instant  he  saw  that  it  was 


MONSIGNY  201 

Mrs.  Marlowe,  and  he  drew  farther  ^ack  into  the 
shadows,  hoping  that  she  would  not  see  him. 
She  was  sobbing  as  she  came,  with  her  head  bent 
low,  and  this,  with  a  very  violent  trembling  which 
shook  her  from  head  to  foot — the  reaction  from 
the  long  nervous  strain  in  which  she  had  held 
herself  so  calmly,  made  her  approach  slow  and 
difficult,  so  that  she  held  to  the  wall  with  one  hand, 
and  paused  a  little  after  each  uncertain  step. 

Nevertheless,  she  saw  him  waiting  there  in  the 
shadows,  and  halted  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
leaning  against  the  wall. 

"Oh,  Tony,  Tony  !"  she  moaned,  stretching  out 
an  arm  to  him  as  she  clung  to  the  wall.  "Oh, 
Tony,  I  have  ruined  the  one  thing  in  all  the  world 
that  I  loved.  God  help  me !  I  wonder  if  you 
will  ever  understand,  Tony !  I  wonder  if  you 
will  understand!"  But  Beresford  passed  her 
quickly  and  went  on  down  the  stairs,  not  looking 
into  her  face  again,  and  as  he  rounded  the  next 
turn  he  heard  her  sobbing  break  out  afresh. 

Down  by  the  steps  of  the  terrace  where  the 
trap  was  waiting  he  found  the  Earl  and  Isabeau. 
Lord  Stratton  had  disappeared.  The  old  gentle 
man  seized  the  hand  which  he  would  have  with 
held  and  pumped  at  it  vigorously. 

"  I  want  you  to  understand, "  he  growled,  "  that 


202  MONSIGNY 

I  don't  believe  a  word  of  all  that  damned  nonsense 
— not  a  word.  I  don't  understand  what  is  going 
on,  and,  maybe,  I  never  shall,  though  it  won't 
be  for  want  of  trying;  but  I  know  that  woman  is 
playing  you  a  nasty  trick,  somehow,  and  you're 
such  a  cursedly  Quixotic  beggar  that  you  won't 
give  her  away.  Just  you  mind  my  words  !  We'll 
have  this  thing  cleared  up  or  break  our  necks 
trying.  I  know  she's  playing  some  sort  of  game." 

Beresford  shook  his  head,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"I'm  afraid  it  can't  be  cleared  up,"  said  he, 
"though,  God  knows,  I'm  grateful  to  you  for 
feeling  like  this  about  it.  No,  it  won't  be  cleared 
up.  I'm — I'm  done  for,  sir. " 

But  Isabeau  came  close  to  him,  looking  into  his 
face,  and  her  eyes  were  very  troubled  and  shadowy 
and  full  of  distress,  and  her  lips  quivered  till 
Beresford  set  his  teeth  and  clenched  his  fists,  at 
his  side,  to  hold  himself  in  hand. 

"Oh,  dearest!"  said  she,  "for  the  last  time, 
will  you  not  answer  me  ?  You  have  not  said  that 
those  things  the — the  woman  told  were  true. 
Were  they  true,  my  heart?  Were  they  true?" 

"  I  cannot  deny  them, "  he  said  again,  very  low. 

"They  were  not  true!"  she  cried.  "Don't 
you  suppose  I  would  know  if  they  were  true? 
Don't  you  suppose  I  could  tell  ?  Ah,  if  you  would 


MONSIGNY  203 

only  speak!"  Her  voice  broke  a  little,  and  the 
beautiful  head  drooped,  but  she  reared  it  again 
proudly. 

"You  are  shielding  somebody,"  she  said,  in  a 
tone  of  certainty.  "  I  know  that  you  are  shielding 
somebody  and  taking  upon  yourself  blame  that 
you  do  not  deserve.  If  only  we  could  clear  this 
dreadful  thing  up  !  If  only  we  could  clear  it  up  ! 
But,  dearest  of  everything,  though  you  are  going 
away,  and  though  I  may  not  see  you  for  a  long 
time,  never  forget,  oh,  never  forget,  that  I 
believe  in  you,  trust  you  always,  and — and  love 
you,  mon  cceur,  love  you !  I  think  we  shall  know 
the  truth  sometime,  I  feel  it,  but  if  not,  why,  if 
not,  still,  I  shall  trust  you.  Good-by,  my  king, 
good  by !  Ah,  no ;  au  revoir,  that  is  better. 
Listen !  If  these  clouds  do  not  go,  if  you  cannot 
come  back  to  Monsigny,  if  we  cannot  find  out  the 
truth  and  lay  it  before  my  father,  send  for  me,  and 
I  will  come  to  you.  I  will  not  lose  you  so  easily  ! 
I  will  come  to  you  anywhere.  Au  revoir,  mon 
cceur!" 

She  put  out  her  two  hands  to  him,  but  young 
Beresford  drew  back,  holding  himself  tight  in 
check. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  will  not  touch  you,  now, 
not  while  I  am  under  this — this  shadow.  If  ever 


204  MONSIGNY 

it  is  cleared  away,  I  shall  come  back.  Oh,  God 
keep  you,  my  queen !"  He  climbed  into  the  trap 
beside  the  groom  who  was  to  drive  him,  and  they 
rolled  swiftly  away  down  the  avenue. 

But  up  at  a  window  of  the  chateau,  behind 
filmy  white  curtains  that  hid  her  from  sight,  a 
woman  lay  prone,  watching  for  the  last  glimpse 
of  him  before  the  trap  was  hidden  among  the 
gloomy  firs.  And,  when  he  was  quite  gone,  she 
dropped  her  face  upon  her  arms,  sobbing  still 
from  sheer  exhaustion,  but  dry -eyed,  for  she  was 
past  tears. 

"If  I  could  unsay  it,  Tony !"  she  cried  voice- 
lessly.  "If  only  I  could  unsay  it !  Oh,  how  can 
a  woman  so  hurt  the  man  she  loves?"  Then, 
after  a  time,  she  raised  her  head  again,  looking 
idly  out  of  the  window,  and,  as  she  did  so,  she 
gave  a  sudden  violent  shiver,  for  her  eyes  had 
fallen  upon  the  old  Earl  of  Strope,  who  stood  just 
below,  at  the  edge  of  the  terrace,  with  his  grand 
daughter.  His  grim,  lean  old  face  and  his  leonine 
strength  had  never  seemed  to  her  so  terrible,  so 
sinister.  She  was  beginning  to  have  an  almost 
superstitious  fear  of  the  man. 

The  Earl,  meanwhile,  was  gazing  after  the 
vanished  trap  and  bending  his  white  brows  in 
puzzled  thought. 


MONSIGNY  205 

"If  only  one  knew  where  to  begin  in  unraveling 
the  thing!"  he  growled.  "If  one  had  some 
thing  upon  which  to  start !  Beresford  won't 
say  a  word,  that  is  certain,  and,  as  for  the  woman, 
I  suppose  nothing  could  be  frightened  out  of 
her.  Ah  !  the  other  woman  !  the  Mrs.  Travers  ! 
If  one  could  find  her,  now  !"  But  the  girl  looked 
up  suddenly,  with  so  strange  a  change  in  her 
expression,  so  swift  a  movement,  that  he  broke 
off  in  the  middle  of  a  word. 

"I  don't  believe  there  is  any  other  woman !" 
said  the  girl  in  a  quick,  trembling  voice.  "I 
believe  she  is  Mrs.  Travers,  herself.  No  other 
woman  would  have  told  her  such  things.  She  is 
Mrs.  Travers,  I  tell  you !  Who  knows  anything 
about  her  past  life  ?  Where  does  she  come  from  ? 
Who  was  her  husband?  No  one  can  tell  you. 
Oh,  I'm  sure  she  is  Mrs.  Travers,  grandpere  / 

"By  Heaven !"  cried  the  Earl,  and  his  own 
voice  shook  a  little  with  the  excitement.  "By 
Heaven,  I  believe  you're  right !  Why  did  none 
of  us  think  of  it  before?  I  have  a  notion  that 
I  was  near  the  idea  myself  when  I  asked  her  how 
she  knew  all  this  stuff,  but  her  confoundedly  glib 
answer  about  Mrs.  Travers  and  her  villa  near 
Tours  quite  upset  my  mind.  By  Jove,  if  you 
should  be  right !"  He  paced  up  and  down  the 


2o6  MONSIGNY 

terrace,  jerking  his  white  head,  and  working  his 
bushy  eyebrows  excitedly. 

"But  how  to  find  out?"  he  said.  "How  to 
prove  that  it  is  so?  The  divorce  was  granted 
five  years  ago.  Wait,  wait !"  He  stopped  dead 
in  his  walk  and  held  up  one  hand. 

"Those  London  weeklies!"  he  cried,  "the  file 
of  them  in  the  library !  They  run  back  more 
than  ten  years !  The  affair  was  much  talked  of, 
at  the  time,  I  remember.  Travers  was  well 
known.  They'll  have  it,  the  papers !  Oh,  why 
did  I  not  think  of  it  before  ?  I  must  be  growing 
old." 

He  was  making  hurriedly  for  the  door,  when 
he  almost  ran  into  Lord  Stratton,  who  was 
coming  out. 

"Ah !"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "I  was  wishing 
to  see  you.  Do  you  remember  the  month  in 
which  that  Travers  divorce  affair  took  place? 
I  have  a  reason  for  asking.  Also,  do  you 
remember  anything  peculiar  about  the  case? 
In  particular,  was  any  other  man  concerned 
beside  Ashton  Beresford?" 

"I  am  not  certain,"  said  the  Viscount,  "but  I 
believe  the  thing  occurred  during  the  early  winter 
• — December  or  January,  I  should  say,  possibly 
November.  I  have  no  especial  reason  for  remem- 


MONSIGNY  207 

bering,  save  that  I  knew  Colonel  Travers.  You 
did,  also,  I  think.  I  do  not  recollect  that  any 
other  man  was  concerned  in  the  thing,  except  that 
painter  chap — what  is  his  name?  Dimmesdale, 
who  was,  and  I  believe  is,  a  great  friend  of  Beres- 
ford's,  was  to  have  given  certain  evidence  to  clear 
or  partially  clear  Beresford,  but  didn't  turn  up— 
was  ill  somewhere  here  on  the  Continent.  He  has 
a  studio  in  Paris  now,  I  believe.  I  have  meant, 
once  or  twice,  to  ask  him  out  here.  That  is  all  I 
remember  of  the  case.  As  I  said  before,  it  made 
no  particularly  strong  impression  upon  me." 

He  turned  half  way,  and  stared  gloomily  out 
over  the  tree  tops. 

"I  am  not  given  to  emotion,"  said  he,  "as  you 
very  well  know,  but  this  thing  has  cut  me  up 
badly.  I  would  have  sworn  by  young  Beresford 
before  almost  any  other  man.  Indeed,  I  can't 
yet  believe  that  he  is  all  we  have — heard.  I  can't 
help  feeling  that  there  is  a  mistake  somewhere. 
If  only  the  lad  would  deny  it !  If  only  he'd  deny 
it!" 

The  old  Earl  passed  on  into  the  chateau, 
nodding  his  white  head. 

"There  is  a  bigger  mistake  somewhere  than 
you're  reckoning  for,"  said  he  grimly. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  came  hurriedly  out  of  the 


2o8  MONSIGNY 

house,  and  found  his  granddaughter  sitting  for 
lornly  alone  in  a  corner  of  the  terrace.  There 
were  certain  evidences  that  she  had  been  indulging 
in  tears.  The  old  gentleman's  hands  shook  with 
excitement  as  he  held  out  to  her  a  long  narrow 
strip  cut  from  an  illustrated  paper.  The  strip 
was  a  single  column  of  print  with  two  portraits 
at  the  head — reproductions  from  photographs. 
One  of  the  portraits  was  that  of  a  man  in  uniform, 
the  other  of  a  woman. 

The  girl  gave  a  smothered  cry. 
"  It's  she  !  Oh,  it's  she  !  It's  Mrs.  Marlowe  !" 
"  It  is,"  said  the  Earl;  " it  is  Mrs.  Marlowe,  if  we 
are  to  be  civil  and  call  her  by  her  present  nom  de 
guerre.  Read  the  notice  there  !  It  is  not  exactly 
jeune  fille  literature,  but  the  case  is  rather  pressing. 
Read  particularly  the  last  paragraph,  about  the 
other  man.  That  is  the  interesting  part,  the 
other  man.  His  name  is  Dimmesdale,  and  he  is 
a  very  well-known  painter.  I  am  going  in  to 
Paris  this  evening  to  make  a  call  upon  Mr. 
Dimmesdale," 


CHAPTER  XII! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

YOUNG  Beresford,  when  he  reached  Paris,  put 
his  luggage  into  a  fiacre  and  drove  at  once  from 
the  Gare  St.  Lazare  to  his  chambers  in  the  rue  du 
Faubourg  St.  Honore.  Then,  since  it  was  nearly 
seven  o'clock,  he  proceeded  slowly  to  dress  for 
dinner.  He  had  steadfastly  refused,  since  leaving 
Chateau  Monsigny,  to  allow  his  mind  to  dwell 
upon  what  had  happened.  He  had  driven  his 
thoughts,  by  sheer  force  of  will,  into  trivial  chan 
nels,  into  making  plans  for  amusing  himself  during 
the  next  few  days,  even  to  contemplating  a  fort 
night's  trip  to  Switzerland,  and  some  climbing  in 
the  Oberland.  Of  course  he  knew  that  this  was 
no  more  than  a  postponement  of  something  which 
must  be  gone  through;  that  there  was  a  very 
black  time  ahead  for  him  somewhere,  which  no 
temporary  distraction  could  hope  to  lighten;  but 
he  shrank  from  the  realisation  of  what  had  come 
upon  him  as  a  man  shrinks  from  the  operating 
table  and  the  surgeon's  knife. 

He  had  no  intention  whatever  of  submitting 
weakly  to  the  absolute  defeat  of  his  hopes,  to  the 

211 


2i2  MONSIGNY 

absolute  ruin  of  his  character  with  the  people  for 
whose  good-will  he  most  cared,  for  he  was  a  strong 
man  and  determined,  and  he  loved  Isabeau  de 
Monsigny  more  than  most  men  ever  love  anything 
in  all  their  lives.  But  the  woman  had  been  very- 
clever  in  dealing  her  blow.  She  had  known  him 
so  well  that  she  had  felt  perfectly  secure  in  trusting 
to  an  almost  Quixotic  and  extraordinarily  rare 
sense  of  chivalry  which  existed  in  him,  and  which, 
five  years  before,  had  led  him  to  take  a  stand 
and  to  make  promises  as  few  other  men  would 
have  done.  She  had  so  phrased  her  denunciation 
of  him  that  to  deny  it,  to  clear  himself,  meant  that 
he  must  expose  her;  and  this,  she  knew,  he  was 
entirely  incapable  of  doing.  Her  only  mistake 
was  in  failing  to  realise  that  danger  might  develop 
from  other  quarters. 

He  had  no  intention,  it  has  been  said,  of  sub 
mitting  to  his  present  condition,  and  he  fully 
purposed  somehow  to  clear  himself  of  the  stigma 
which  had  been  put  upon  him,  but  he  wished  time 
to  consider,  and  for  the  immediate  present  he 
wished  not  to  consider  at  all.  The  blow  had  been 
a  very  heavy  one.  It  would  have  been  interesting 
to  trace,  if  subsequent  events  had  not,  as  they  did, 
hurried  the  affair  to  a  conclusion  without  his 
interference,  just  to  what  extremes  a  man  of  his 


MONSIGNY  213 

temperament,  strong  and  passionate  and  deter 
mined,  but  handicapped  always  by  a  sense  of 
honour  almost  fantastic,  would  have  gone  to  clear 
his  name  and  to  gain  the  woman  he  loved,  for  he 
would  surely  have  gained  her  at  the  last  by  any 
cost. 

He  stood  a  moment  when  he  had  dressed  looking 
down  into  the  busy  rue  du  Faubourg  St.  Honord, 
where  cabs  passed  in  an  endless  double  chain  and 
the  pavement  was  crowded  by  homeward-bound 
shoppers  and  working  people. 

"I  think  I  will  look  up  Dimmesdale,"  he  said 
at  last.  "He  probably  will  not  yet  have  left  the 
studio,  and  I  mustn't  be  alone  for  the  evening. 
Good  God,  not  that!" 

He  took  a  fiacre  and  drove  across  the  river 
along  the  broad  Boulevard  St.  Germain  and  up 
the  rue  de  Rennes,  and  turned  into  the  quiet 
little  rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs,  where 
Dimmesdale's  studio  sat  in  the  midst  of  a  garden 
behind  a  great  wall  with  "Defense  d*  Afficher" 
printed  large  across  the  stucco.  Dimmesdale 
himself  came  to  the  door  in  answer  to  his  ring, 
and  greeted  him  with  the  quiet  heartiness  of  long 
friendship. 

Dimmesdale  was  a  rather  tall  man,  very  slightly 
made,  and  he  had  the  pallour  of  one  little  given  to 


2i4  MONSIGNY 

sports  or  an  out-of-door  life.  His  lack  of  muscu 
lar  development  showed  at  the  neck  and  in  the 
wrists,  and  in  the  legs  when  the  cloth  of  his 
trousers  was  drawn  tight  over  them.  He  had  a 
handsome  face,  but  it  was  heavily  lined  and  drawn 
and  a  bit  haggard.  He  could  not  have  been  over 
forty  or  thereabouts,  but  he  had  the  look  of  a 
man  ten  years  older,  and  his  eyes  were  very  weary. 

"I  am  glad  you  chanced  to  turn  up,"  said  he, 
"for 'I  have  been  feeling  just  a  bit  seedy  and  at 
odds  with  the  world  all  day  long.  I  was  debating 
a  few  minutes  ago  as  to  whether  I  wished  to  dress 
and  go  out  somewhere  for  dinner,  or  dine  comfort 
ably  here — in  the  garden,  perhaps.  I  some 
times  have  Jean  bring  me  in  a  sort  of  dinner  from 
one  of  the  restaurants  near.  What  have  you  been 
doing  of  late?  Where  are  you  from?" 

"  I  have  been  stopping  out  in  the  country  for  a 
few  days,"  said  Beresford,  "at  Chateau  Monsigny, 
near  Versailles.  Lord  Stratton,  the  son  of  the 
old  Earl  of  Strope,  married  the  daughter  and 
heiress  of  the  last  Marquis  a  long  time  ago,  you 
know.  He  lives  there  now  with  his  daughter, 
who  is  the  present  heiress,  and  with  the  old  Earl. 
It  is  a  beautiful  place. " 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  Dimmesdale,  "I  have  met  the 
Earl.  Heavens,  what  a  splendid  old  type  !  And 


MONSIGNY  215 

I  think  I  have  met  Lord  Stratton.  I  saw  the  girl 
once,  here  at  the  Opera.  I  rather  think  she  is  the 
most  beautiful  woman  I  have  ever  seen.  I  should 
like  to  paint  her.  Was  there  a  party  ? " 

"No,"  said  young  Beresford,  "only  one  other 
guest.  I — I  think  I  shall  be  wanting  to  tell  you 
something,  a  bit  later,  something  very  important, 
an  important  difficulty.  I  could  tell  no  one  else 
but  you,  for  you  already  know  many  of  the  cir 
cumstances  connected  with  the  thing.  You 
know — or  knew — this  other  guest  at  Monsigny. 
However,  that  will  wait  till  after  dinner.  By  all 
means  let  us  have  dinner  here,  in  the  garden. 
Afterward  I  think — I  am  not  sure,  but  I  think — 
I  should  like  to  get  very  drunk  or  do  something 
else  equally  distracting.  I  need  distraction  very 
badly,  Dimmesdale.  I'm  in  a  devil  of  a  way !" 

They  dined  under  the  trees  of  the  garden, 
with  no  light  save  the  little  candles  on  the  table 
and  a  half-dozen  orange-coloured  paper  lanterns 
strung  over  their  heads.  But,  as  the  evening 
advanced,  it  became  cloudy  and  a  warning  drop 
or  two  of  rain  splashed  through  the  leaves,  so  that 
the  two  men  were  driven  back  into  the  great 
studio  for  their  coffee  and  tobacco. 

"It  might  be  a  good  time,"  said  the  painter, 
after  the  lamps  were  lighted  and  the  coffee  set 


216  MONSIGNY 

ready  to  hand,  with  little  decanters  of  cognac  and 
of  coloured  liqueurs,  "it  might  be  a  good  time 
now  to  tell  me  about  this  other  guest  at  Chateau 
Monsigny,  and  about  the  difficulty  you  are  in.  I 
take  it  for  granted  that  the  other  guest  was  a 
woman."  He  laughed,  and  struck  a  match  to 
light  his  cigarette. 

But  before  young  Beresford  could  answer  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  studio  door.  Dimmesdale 
went  to  open  it,  and  at  the  sound  of  the  voice 
from  without  young*  Beresford  sprang  up  with 
a  smothered  cry. 

"Come  in,  sir,"  said  the  painter.  "It  is  very 
wet.  You  are  Lord  Strope,  I  think?"  The  old 
Earl  came  into  the  room,  setting  his  wet  umbrella 
near  the  door. 

"Ah !"  said  he,  as  he  caught  sight  of  Beresford 
beyond,  "I  am  glad  you  are  here.  I  thought  it 
quite  probable  that  you  might  be.  It  is  a  very 
wet  night,  very  wet.  These  -fiacres  are  poor 
things  to  be  about  in  when  it  is  stormy,  even  with 
the  top  and  boot  up. "  He  sat  down  upon  a  great 
divan,  chafing  his  strong  hands  together  and 
working  his  eyebrows  up  and  down  in  his  curious 
gorilla  fashion.  It  was  a  trick  he  had  when  a 
little  excited  or  a  little  embarrassed. 

"Will  you  not  have  some  coffee,  sir,"  asked 


MONSIGNY  217 

Dimmesdale,  "and  a  cigarette  or  a  cigar?  We 
had  just  finished  dining  and  were  starting  upon 
the  coffee." 

"  No  coffee,  thank  you, "  said  the  old  gentleman, 
"but  a  little  glass  of  that  brandy,  if  you  will  be  so 
good.  No,  I  won't  smoke. " 

He  drank  the  brandy  slowly  and  in  silence  and 
set  down  the  glass,  frowning  as  if  he  were  at  a  loss 
as  to  how  he  should  commence  what  he  wished 
to  say. 

"Mr.  Dimmesdale,"  he  began  finally,  "we  are 
involved,  out  at  Monsigny,  in  a  very  strange  and 
very  serious  tangle  of  misfortune  which  threatens 
great  danger  to  two  ancient  houses  and  great 
unhappiness  to  several  people.  I  think  that  you 
are  the  only  man  who  can  extricate  us,  and  I  have 
come  here  to  ask  you  to  do  it.  It  may  be  I  am 
so  mistaken  as  to  certain  facts  that  you  have 
not  the  power  to  help  us,  or  it  may  be  that  you 
will  not  be  willing,  but,  as  I  have  said,  the  happi 
ness  of  a  number  of  people  depends,  I  believe, 
upon  you,  and  the  honour  of  two  houses."  He 
paused  a  moment,  watching  the  painter's  face, 
and  Dimmesdale  frowned  across  at  him  attentively 
with  puzzled,  uncomprehending  eyes. 

"My  son,  Lord  Stratton, "  continued  the  old 
Earl,  slowly,  "wishes  to  marry  a  certain  woman 


2i8  MONSIGNY 

who  calls  herself  Mrs.  Marlowe,  but  whose  real 
name  is  Mrs.  Travers,  the  divorced  wife  of  Colonel 
Travers,  formerly  of  the  African  Service." 

Dimmesdale  sat  down  quietly  in  a  chair  which 
stood  near  and  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
Young  Beresford  gave  another  sudden  little 
smothered  cry,  and  would  have  spoken  but  that 
the  Earl  held  up  a  silencing  hand. 

"This  marriage,  as  you  will  readily  see,"  he 
went  on,  "would  be  most  unfortunate  for  obvious 
reasons.  I  may  explain  that  my  son  is  not  aware 
of  the  woman's  real  identity.  He  believes  her  to 
be  the  widow  she  claims  to  be.  Further,  this 
woman,  this  Mrs.  Travers,  has,  actuated,  I  believe, 
by  jealousy,  broken  off  an  engagement  between 
my  granddaughter,  Isabeau  de  Monsigny,  and 
Ashton  Beresford,  by  accusing  Mr.  Beresford,  to 
Isabeau' s  father  and  to  myself,  of  an  outrageous 
course  of  conduct  which,  I  think,  is  altogether 
untrue.  She  accuses  him  of  having  betrayed  this 
Mrs.  Travers,  whom  she  claims  as  a  friend  of  hers, 
of  having  been  responsible  for  her  divorce,  and 
finally,  of  having  evaded  a  promise  to  marry  her. 
These  preposterous  accusations  Mr.  Beresford, 
through  some  fantastic  sense  of  honour,  I  take 
it,  refuses  to  deny.  Now,  how  I  discovered  the 
identity  of  the  woman  I  need  not  tell  you.  I 


MONSIGNY  219 

need  say  only  this,  that  in  discovering  it  I  came 
also  upon  certain  facts  which  led  me  to  think  that 
you,  and  you  alone,  could,  if  you  so  desired,  clear 
away  all  these  difficulties,  free  Ashton  Beresford's 
name  from  stain  and  prevent  a  most  unfortunate 
marriage." 

Dimmesdale  sat  for  a  long  time  silent  after  the 
Earl  had  finished.  His  face  was  hidden  from  the 
light  by  the  hand  which  supported  his  head. 
Then,  presently,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  took  a  turn 
up  and  down  the  long  room,  and  the  two  men  who 
sat  watching  him  were  amazed  to  see,  now  that 
his  face  was  in  the  light,  how  suddenly  haggard 
it  had  grown. 

He  halted  at  last  before  the  old  Earl,  and  he 
threw  out  his  hands  with  a  curious  little  gesture 
as  if  he  were  very  tired. 

"I  will  do  anything  you  wish,  sir,"  he  said 
simply, 


CHAPTER  XIV 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LORD  STRATTON  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
long  flagstoned  stretch  of  the  south  terrace. 
There  was  a  brier  pipe  between  his  teeth  which 
he  believed  himself  to  be  smoking,  but  he  forgot 
it  every  few  minutes  so  that  it  went  out  and  had 
to  be  relighted,  and  after  awhile  he  neglected  it 
altogether,  biting  at  the  stem  and  shifting  it 
between  his  teeth  from  comfortable  habit. 

Earlier  in  the  evening  it  had  been  raining,  but 
the  sky  was  at  this  time  nearly  clear  again,  save 
for  ragged  masses  of  driven  cloud  to  the  south 
ward,  and  the  moon  shone  like  a  wash  of  silver 
upon  the  wet  leaves  of  the  trees  and  upon  the 
wet  turf  and  the  shining  little  pools  of  water  at 
the  margin  of  the  avenue. 

It  had  been  a  most  trying  day,  and  although 
he  was  not  an  emotional  man  nor  easily  moved, 
the  events  which  had  taken  place  had  moved 
him  strongly,  more  strongly  than  he  would  have 
believed  possible.  Isabeau's  adventure  and  nar 
row  escape  from  death  had  been  a  great  shock, 

223 


224  MONSIGNY 

for  he  loved  his  daughter  very  dearly.  Then, 
after  the  matter  of  her  engagement  to  Ashton 
Beresford  was  so  satisfactorily  arranged,  had 
come  Mrs.  Marlowe's  denunciation  of  Beresford 
and  his  inability  to  deny  the  charges.  Beresford 
had  acted  rather  curiously,  he  thought.  He  had 
not  borne  the  air  of  guilt.  Indeed,  it  seemed 
impossible  that  the  young  man  could  have  been 
such  a  blackguard;  he  would  have  shown  it  in 
other  ways.  Still,  he  had  not  denied  the  charges. 
He  had  admitted  their  truth.  No,  he  had  not 
done  that.  He  had  been  careful  not  to  do  it. 
He  had  said  that  he  could  not  deny  what  was 
charged.  There  might  be  something  in  that. 
The  Viscount  took  the  pipe  from  his  teeth  and 
paused  a  moment  in  his  walk  to  consider.  Yes, 
there  might  be  something  in  that.  It  was  all 
very  strange.  He  wished  that  he  could  see  Mrs. 
Marlowe  again  to  ask  for  more  details.  There 
were  certain  discrepancies,  certain  unexplained 
points  in  what  she  had  said  which  he  would  like  to 
probe,  for  he  was  a  careful  man. 

Mrs.  Marlowe  had  not  been  down  for  dinner, 
nor  later  in  the  evening.  She  had  sent  word  that 
a  headache  was  confining  her  to  her  room.  The 
old  Earl  had  eaten  a  hasty  meal  alone  and  very 
early,  after  which  he  had  dashed  off  to  Paris  on 


MONSIGNY  225 

business  of  importance,  so  he  said.  He  had 
looked  unusually  alert  and  eager.  So  the  other 
three,  Isabeau — she  would  not  make  excuses  and 
stop  away :  she  had  her  mother's  spirit— Mme.  de 
Brissal,  and  himself,  had  sat  down  to  a  very 
silent  and  very  miserable  dinner.  They  had  not 
lingered  at  the  table. 

He  pulled  out  his  watch  as  he  reached  the  little 
patch  of  moonlight  at  one  end  of  the  terrace.  He 
thought  it  must  be  growing  late,  but  was  surprised 
to  find  that  it  was  but  a  little  after  ten.  Just  at 
that  moment  the  bugle  blew,  faint  and  clear, 
from  the  lodge. 

"That  will  be  my  father,  back  from  Paris," 
said  Lord  Stratton.  "He  must  have  driven 
across  from  Versailles  in  a  hired  cab.  I  think  no 
trap  is  out  of  the  stables."  He  waited  at  the 
steps  of  the  terrace  for  the  vehicle  to  come  up  the 
long  winding  avenue,  but  when  it  did  at  last 
appear  from  the  gloom  of  the  firs — a  hired  fiacre, 
as  he  had  surmised — there  were  three  men  in  it 
instead  of  one. 

The  old  Earl  descended  first,  and  Lord  Stratton 
lifted  his  eyebrows  slightly  as  Ashton  Beresford 
followed  him.  The  third  man  he  recognised  as 
the  painter,  Dimmesdale,  whom  he  had  once  or 
twice  met  and  rather  liked. 


226  MONSIGNY 

The  Earl  paid  off  the  cocker  and  turned  to  his 
son. 

"There  are  certain  very  important  matters 
affecting  us  all,"  he  said,  "that  must  be  settled 
to-night;  and  certain  dangers  that  must  be 
cleared  away.  I  have  asked  these  two  gentle 
men  out  here  to  help  us  in  the  affair.  Will 
you  come  inside?" 

Lord  Stratton  led  the  way  into  his  great  book- 
lined  study  without  a  word.  He  felt  that  some 
thing  momentous  was  about  to  happen — some 
thing  quite  beyond  his  knowledge  or  expectation, 
for  his  father  had  spoken  with  more  than  his 
usual  earnestness,  and  he  knew,  moreover,  that 
the  Earl  would  not  have  brought  Ashton  Beres- 
ford  and  Dimmesdale  out  to  Monsigny  except  for 
an  excellent  reason. 

He  sat  down  beside  the  great  square  writing- 
table  which  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  but 
his  father  remained  standing  near  at  hand. 

"You  have  been — we  have  been,"  said  the  old 
Earl,  "  very  greatly  deceived  in  a  guest  who  is  now 
under  this  roof.  She  is  not  who  or  what  she 
claims  to  be,  and  the  marriage  arrangement 
between  her  and  yourself  must  be  broken  off." 

Lord  Stratton  laughed  shortly.  "If  that  is 
the  result  of  all  your  mystery  and  activity,"  said 


MONSIGNY  227 

he,  "you  might  better  have  stopped  at  home. 
The  marriage  will  not  be  broken  off." 

"If  you  will  touch  that  bell  near  your  hand," 
said  the  Earl,  with  no  show  of  temper — and  from 
that  alone  his  son  must  have  seen  how  much  in 
earnest  he  was — "we  will  send  a  servant  to  call 
her  here.  I  am  not  speaking  idly.  I  can  prove 
all  I  say." 

"Nonsense!"  cried  the  Viscount.  "I  shall  do 
nothing  of  the  sort.  I  will  not  have  my  own 
guest  cross-questioned  and  browbeaten.  I  shall 
not  ring." 

But  the  Earl  took  from  his  pocket  a  folded  slip 
of  paper,  the  slip  cut  that  afternoon  from  a 
London  weekly,  and  gave  it  to  his  son. 

"Read  that!"  said  he,  "and  look  at  the  two 
portraits  at  the  top  of  the  column." 

Lord  Stratton  glanced  at  the  heading  and  at 
the  two  little  portraits,  and  he  drew  a  quick 
shivering  breath  and  closed  his  eyes  for  an  instant. 
Then  he  read  the  print  through  twice.  After 
ward  he  sat  for  a  little  time  silent,  with  bent  head. 
Then  he  touched  the  bell  at  his  side. 

"Take  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Marlowe  and 
ask  her  to  be  so  good  as  to  come  downstairs  to  the 
study  on  a  matter  of  importance,"  he  said  to  the 
servant.  "And  ask  Mme.  cle  Brissal  also  to 


228  MONSIGNY 

come.  I  will  not  have  Mrs.  Marlowe  here  without 
another  woman  in  the  room  to  lend  her  coun 
tenance,"  he  added,  turning  toward  his  father. 

The  servant  was  absent  for  several  minutes  and 
then  returned  to  say  that  Mme.  de  Brissal 
would  be  down  at  once,  but  that  Mrs.  Marlowe 
begged  to  be  excused  for  this  evening,  since  she 
was  suffering  greatly  and  was  on  the  point  of 
retiring. 

"Take  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Marlowe,"  said 
Lord  Stratton,  "and  tell  her  that  the  matter  will 
not  admit  of  delay.  Tell  her  that  I  am  waiting 
in  the  study." 

But  when  the  man  had  again  left  the  room,  he 
rose  and  paced  to  and  fro  restlessly.  He  met  the 
old  Earl's  somber  eyes  and  halted  impatiently. 

"What  if  this  is  true?"  he  cried,  raising  the 
crumpled  slip  of  paper.  "What  if  she  was  Mrs. 
Travers?  It  does  not  necessarily  mean  that  she 
was  a  guilty  woman,  nor  does  it  clear  his  name  !" 
And  he  turned  for  a  moment,  frowning,  toward 
young  Beresford. 

But  the  Earl  put  a  hand  on  his  son's  shoulder 
and  looked  into  his  eyes,  shaking  his  white  head. 

"She  lied,  Richard,"  he  said  very  gently. 
"She  lied  about  others  as  well  as  about  herself, 
and  for  a  reason  that  will  be  made  plain  later. 


MONSIGNY  229 

She  was  a  guilty  woman  and  she  has  lied  through 
out.  You  must  let  me  ask  her  the  questions,  for 
I  know  many  facts  that  you  do  not.  I  shall  not 
browbeat  or  abuse  her,  but  I  must  make  her  tell 
us  the  truth;  then  you  will  be  convinced."  He 
turned  to  where  Dimmesdale  sat  in  the  shadow. 
"Will  you  step  into  the  farther  room  beyond 
those  portieres?"  he  said.  "It  might  be  better 
for  you  not  to  be  seen  till  the  proper  time  comes. 
I  shall  call  you." 

Then,  when  the  painter  had  retired  through  the 
hangings,  they  sat  down  once  more,  not  speaking 
again,  and  waited  through  what  seemed  a  very 
long  time,  till  there  came  a  slow  step  outside  and 
Mrs.  Marlowe's  voice. 

"Are  you  in  here,  Lord  Stratton?  Dear  me, 
your  message  was  alarmingly  imperative !  I 
was  quite  terrified,  you  may  be  sure  !  Have  I 
not  been  quick?"  She  stood  in  the  doorway, 
laughing  gently  and  peering  forward  into  the 
dimly  lighted  room.  She  was  dressed  in  a  loose 
trailing  house-gown  of  black,  open  a  little  at  the 
neck  and  with  sleeves  of  lace  that  came  only  to 
the  elbows.  She  was,  as  always  of  late,  very  pale, 
and  the  circles  under  her  eyes  seemed  darker 
than  their  wont.  Old  Mme.  de  Brissal,  greatly 
wondering  and  half-frightened,  hovered  behind 


23o  MONSIGNY 

her.  Then,  all  at  once  Mrs.  Marlowe  saw  the  old 
Earl  and  Ashton  Beresford,  and  one  of  her  hands 
went  suddenly  to  her  breast. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "I— I  thought— I  did  not 
know — I  thought  Lord  Stratton  was  alone." 

The  Earl  came  forward  at  once  and  pushed  out 
a  chair  for  her.  Mme.  de  Brissal  had  already 
slipped  into  a  chair  by  the  door. 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down  ? "  he  said,  and  there  was 
in  his  tone  an  absence  of  its  habitual  gruffness,  a 
curious  change  almost  to  kindness  that  sent  a 
sudden  chill  through  her.  Mrs.  Marlowe  had 
always  been  afraid  of  the  old  man,  terribly  afraid, 
but  this  new  side  of  him  terrified  her  afresh. 

The  Earl  sat  down  opposite  her  at  the  big  table, 
folding  his  arms  upon  its  edge. 

"We  asked  you  to  come  down,"  he  began, 
"because  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  know  a 
little  more  about  certain  matters  relative  to  what 
occurred  this  afternoon  and  to — other  things. 
Now,  in  the  first  place" — he  paused  a  moment, 
looking  reflectively  toward  Lord  Stratton — "my 
son  has  told  me  that  he  wishes  to  marry  you,  that 
he  has  asked  for  your  hand,  and  that  you  have 
accepted  him.  But  a  man  in  high  position,  Mrs. 
Marlowe,  a  man  who  is  of  an  ancient  house  and 
who  will,  one  day,  be  the  head  of  that  house  and 


MONSIGNY  231 

Earl  of  Strope,  must  think  of  many  things  in 
marrying,  many  things  beyond  his  inclinations. 
He  must,  for  one  thing,  know  all  about  the  woman 
who  is  to  be  his  wife  and  possibly  the  mother  of 
his  children.  Does  it  not  occur  to  you  that  we 
know  very  little  about  you?  Will  you  not  tell 
us  more  about  yourself  ?  You  must  see  that  it  is 
necessary.  Tell  us  about  your  earlier  life  and 
your  husband  and  your  people  and  where  in 
England  you  lived  before  your  husband's 
death.  Let  me  see — your  husband  died  four 
years  ago,  I  think  you  said.  In  America,  was 
it  not?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman  in  a  low  voice;  "yes, 
in  America,  in  Chicago.  No,  no,  no,  I  say  !  No, 
not  in  America  !  What  am  I  saying  ?  It  was  in 
India !  Surely  I  told  you  India,  Lord  Strope ! 
Why  did  you  say  America?" 

"That,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "was  a  slip;  I 
meant  India,  of  course.  And  his  name?  Ah, 
I  remember!  John— John  Marlowe." 

"Yes,"  she  said  again,  not  raising  her  eyes, 
"John  Marlowe." 

"No,  wait!"  said  the  Earl;  "wait  a  moment. 
Am  I  not  wrong  again  ?  Surely,  it  was  Charles — 
you  told  my  son  the  other  day.  Why,  yes,  of 
course,  it  was  Charles." 


232  MONSIGNY 

But  the  woman  looked  up  swiftly  with  quivering 
lips,  and  a  white,  hunted  face. 

"Oh,  why — why  quibble  about  these  little 
things,  Lord  Strope?"  she  cried  in  a  shaking  voice 
that  seemed  on  the  edge  of  sobs.  "Why  harry 
me  with — with  going  over  and  over  them?  I — 
I  suppose  I  am  a  very — foolish — nervous  woman, 
but  I — I  cannot  bear  to  talk  about — all  that.  It 
is  too — too  sad.  Let  me — go  to  my  room.  I 
will  not  be  questioned  so.  My  husband  was  John 
Marlowe — John — John.  And  he  died  four  years 
ago  in  India.  Now  you  have  it  all !  Let  me  go  ! 
John  Marlowe,  sir,  John  Marlowe!" 

"  Monseigneur,  oh,  monseigneur, "  begged  old 
Mme.  de  Brissal,  "be  gentle,  monseigneur. 
Remember  that  madame  is  a  woman,  and  not 
well.  Be  gentle,  monseigneur!" 

"  Not  John  Travers,  madame,  not  John  Travers/" 
cried  the  Earl  in  a  great  stern  voice,  raising  him 
self  half  out  of  his  chair  and  leaning  across  the 
table  toward  Mrs.  Marlowe,  his  fierce  old  eyes 
glittering  under  their  shaggy  brows. 

The  woman  gave  a  sudden,  gasping  cry  and 
fell  forward  against  the  edge  of  the  table  with  her 
hands  under  her.  Then,  in  an  instant,  she  had 
whirled  upon  Ashton  Beresford  like  a  cornered 
animal. 


MONSIGNY  233 

"You  told!"  she  cried,  in  a  shaking  whisper. 
"You  told,  you  coward!  Ah,  you  contemptible 
coward !  You  broke  your  word  and  told  them— 
to  save  yourself  I" 

"No,"  said  young  Beresford>  quietly,  "I  have 
told  nothing.  You  know  I  would  not  tell  to  save 
myself. " 

"This  told,"  said  the  old  Earl;  "this  betrayed 
you,  Mrs.  Travers.  I  cut  it  out  of  a  weekly 
paper."  And  he  passed  her  the  slip  that  Lord 
Stratton  had  read  a  few  moments  before. 

She  looked  at  the  two  portraits  and  she  read 
the  notice  through  slowly  to  the  end.  Then,  as 
Lord  Stratton  had  done,  she  sat  a  long  time 
silent,  with  bowed  head  and  drooping  shoulders. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  tired  voice,  "yes, 
I  am  Mrs.  Travers.  I  will  pretend  no  longer. 
You  have  trapped  me  at  last,  run  me  to  earth. 
Aren't  you  proud  of  it?  Isn't  it  something  to 
gloat  over  ? "  She  looked  up  with  a  sort  of  pitiful 
sneering  bitterness.  "Aren't  you  proud  of  it?" 
she  said  again,  "three  great  men  who've  harried 
and  hunted  and  driven  from  pillar  to  post  a  poor 
woman  whom  another  man  had  cast  out  from  his 
home  !  Oh,  it's  a  triumph,  isn't  it  ?  It's  a  capital 
game,  isn't  it?  Why  had  I  not  a  right  to  my 
life?"  she  cried  in  a  mounting  voice.  "Why  had 


234  MONSIGNY 

I  not  a  right  to  change  my  name  and  to  live  among 
my  own  class  who  would  have  turned  me  out  of 
their  doors  if  they  had  known  who  I  was? 
Was  I  not  as  good  as  they,  the  people  I  went 
among  ?  Aye,  better,  better !  Oh,  infinitely 
better  for  you  to  know  the  lives  that  some  of  them 
lead — but  no  lying  divorce  bill  has  robbed  them 
of  all  that  makes  a  woman's  life  sweet. "  She 
turned  desperately  to  Lord  Stratton,  where  he  sat 
in  a  great  chair,  his  elbows  on  its  arms  and  his 
hands  supporting  his  head,  and  she  slipped  down 
on  the  floor  so  that  she  was  kneeling  before  him, 
and  her  hands  clung  to  an  arm  of  the  chair. 

"Oh,  are  you  like  the  rest  of  them?"  she  cried, 
sobbing  a  little.  "Are  you  going  to  cast  me  out 
to — to  God  knows  what,  this  time?  Are  you 
going  to  cry  shame  after  me  and  point  your  finger 
at  me  because  I  was  another  man's  wife  and 
people  lied  to  him?  What  does  it  matter  who  I 
was  ?  You  have  wished  to  marry  me.  You  have 
asked  me  to  marry  you  and  I  am  no  different  than 
I  was  then.  Oh,  I  "would  make  you  a  good  wife. 
I  swear  I  would;  I  swear  it !  I've  wanted  so  to 
marry  you !  It  would  be  such  a  new  life  to  me, 
such  peace  and  comfort  and  content !  You  don't 
know  the  hell  I've  been  through  for  five  years,  the 
fear,  the  dread,  the  lying  !  Ah,  how  I  hated  it  all ! 


MONSIGNY  235 

Don't  cast  me  off,  Lord  Stratton  !  You  said  I  was 
the  only  woman  you  would  think  of  marrying  and 
I'm  the  same  woman  now.  Am  I  not  ?  am  I  not  ? 
I  could  make  you  happy,  you  know  I  could. 
Don't  turn  me  away  for  a  lying  divorce  bill !" 

"Was  it  a  lying  divorce  bill,  Mrs.  Travers?" 
said  the  old  Earl  from  the  table.  "  Was  it  ? " 

She  swung  about  toward  him  and  looked  swiftly 
from  his  face  to  Ashton  Beresford's  and  back 
again.  Her  eyes  were  wide  and  burning  and 
hunted,  like  those  of  an  animal  which  is  sore 
pressed. 

"Lying?"  she  whispered  hoarsely,  and  waited 
to  steady  her  voice.  "Lying?  Yes,  it  was 
lying !  Yes,  yes,  of  course  it  was  lying !  Did 
you  think  I  was  guilty  of  what  they  said — the 
witnesses,  those  horrible  witnesses?  I  was  inno 
cent,  I  say,  innocent !  Oh,  don't  you  believe  me  ? 
Ask — ask  him  !  Ask  Ashton  Beresford  !  Tony, 
Tony,  tell  them  that  I  was  innocent !  Oh,  that 
you  could  think  such  things !  I — I  swear  I  was 
innocent !" 

"  Dimmesdale ! "  said  the  old  Earl,  raising  his 
voice  a  little,  "Dimmesdale!"  The  hangings 
beyond  parted  for  an  instant  to  admit  the  painter, 
who  stood,  white  and  haggard,  behind  the 
Earl's  chair. 


236  MONSIGNY 

"Harry!  Harry!"  screamed  the  woman,  and 
sprang  swiftly  to  her  feet  and  started  toward  him ; 
but  she  fell  forward,  tripping  on  her  skirt,  and 
caught  herself  with  her  hands  against  the  edge 
of  the  table.  And  she  clung  there,  shaking  from 
head  to  foot,  her  face  hidden  on  her  arms. 

Mine,  de  Brissal  left  her  chair  by  the  door, 
where  she  had  sat  frightened  and  silently  weeping 
through  all  the  tense  scene,  and  sank  on  her 
knees  beside  the  crouching  woman,  slipping  her 
arms  about  the  bowed  shoulders  and  murmuring 
comfort  into  the  heedless  ears,  as  one  murmurs 
to  a  frenzied  child. 

But  Mrs.  Marlowe  put  her  aside  and  lifted  her 
white  face  desperately. 

"It's  a  lie!"  she  cried,  choking  with  her  sobs. 
"It's  all  a  horrible  lie  !  Don't  believe  what  Harry 
Dimmesdale  has  told  you.  He's  lying,  lying ! 
He  always  was  a  liar !  He  lied  to  me  in  the  first 
place,  and  when  the  thing  all  came  out  he  ran 
away,  and  he  lied  to  me  afterward.  Don't 
believe  him.  Ah,  to  think  that  I  loved  him  once  ! 
I  tell  you,  it's  all  a  lie !"  Then  she  dropped  her 
face  once  more  upon  her  hands  and  fell  to  weeping 
and  shivering  as  she  crouched  beside  the  table. 

Dimmesdale  came  forward  a  little  from  behind 
the  Earl's  chair  and  looked  toward  Lord  Stratton. 


MONSIGNY  237 

"I  was  the  man,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
"who  made  it  possible  for  Colonel  Travers  to 
obtain  his  divorce.  It  was  I  who  was  seen  by 
the  witnesses  in  company  with  Mrs.  Travers — 
it  was  not  Beresford  !  It  was  I  who  ran  away  at 
the  time  the  case  came  up,  leaving  Beresford, 
who  was  innocent,  to  face  what  I  should  have 
faced.  I  was  his  friend,  and  I  have  continued  to 
be  his  friend  outwardly  since  then,  for  he  has 
never  known  what  I  did.  He  has  never  known 
that  Mrs.  Travers  was  guilty  of  what  they  charged 
against  her.  That  is  why  he  offered  to  marry  her, 
because  he  thought  that  she  was  innocent  and 
that  her  life  had  been  unjustly  wrecked.  He 
offered  to  marry  her  and  she  would  not  accept 
because  she — she  loved  me  at  the  time  and  hoped 
that  I  would  marry  her.  She  did  not  know  quite 
what  a  coward  and  blackguard  I  was ;  or,  knowing, 
would  not  believe  it.  Afterward  she  came  to  love 
him,  Beresford,  remembering  what  he  had  borne 
for  her.  She  cared  for  him  more,  I  think,  than 
she  ever  cared  for  me,  but  she  knew  that  he  did 
not  love  her.  I  suppose  that  is  why  she  tried  to 
ruin  him  in  your  eyes.  Women  can  be  unbeliev 
ably  cruel  to  those  they  love.  That  is  all  the 
story,  sir.  I  have  been  a  coward  and  a  scoundrel 
and  worse.  I  have  betrayed  and  deserted  a 


238  MONSIGNY 

woman  and  I  have  left  a  friend  to  suffer  for  my 
sins,  but  I  have  not  been  altogether  free  from 
suffering  myself.  I  have  lived  in  hell  for  five 
years.  Thank  God,  it  is  to  come  to  an  end, 
this  living  lie,  this  whited  sepulcher  of  a  life !" 

He  had  fallen  to  pacing  up  and  down  the  room 
and  his  calmness  had  given  way  to  an  excitement 
that  was  on  the  verge  of  hysteria.  His  hands 
worked  and  twisted  and  his  forehead  shone  wet 
in  the  cross  light  from  the  candles. 

"Thank  God,  it  is  over !"  he  cried  again.  "At 
least,  I  can  be  honest  and  open  in  my  villainy 
now.  I  can  be  known  for  the  blackguard  that  I 
am.  I  tell  you  that  I  have  lived  in  hell !  I  could 
not  have  borne  it  much  longer.  Thank  God 
that  in  unmasking  I  can  be  of  actual  service  where 
a  service  is  needed!"  He  turned  with  bowed 
head  and  went  out  of  the  room,  and  young 
Beresford,  catching  the  Earl's  eye,  rose  and 
left  the  room  also. 

Then  for  a  long  time  no  one  spoke,  and  nothing 
broke  the  silence  In  the  room,  save  that  now  and 
then  the  woman,  crouching  at  the  end  of  the  table, 
sobbed  and  moaned  softly  to  herself,  or  Mme. 
de  Brissal,  weeping  by  the  doorway,  spoke  aloud 
in  little  protesting  murmurs.  But  at  last  the  old 
Earl  raised  himself  with  a  sigh. 


MONSIGNY  239 

"Is  this  true,  Mrs.  Travers?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman,  in  a  low,  dead  voice; 
"oh,  yes,  it  is  true.  Why  should  I  lie  any 
further?" 

"Then,"  said  he  gravely,  "this  marriage  can 
not  take  place."  She  must,  of  course,  already 
have  realised  this,  but  the  words  brought  her  head 
up  with  a  desperate  cry  of  protest. 

"Ah,  no,  no!"  she  cried;  "don't  say  that! 
Ah,  give  me  a  chance  to  prove  that  I've  left  behind 
me  all  that  would  soil  or  degrade  a  woman.  Give 
me  a  chance — some  hope,  some  little  hope  !  I  am 
not  a  bad  woman,  Lord  Strope.  Oh,  I'm  not ! 
I'm  a  better  woman  than  many  you  know  and 
meet  and  like.  If  I — if  I  was — wicked  long  ago, 
it  was  because  I — was  tempted,  was  offered  a  love 
that — that  I  knew  better  than  to  hope  for  at 
home.  God  in  heaven !  have  I  not  suffered  for 
what  I  did?  Do  you  know  how  I  have  suffered 
for  five  years  ?  You  never  suffered  so  in  all  your 
long  life.  Oh,  why  is  a  woman  blackened  and 
stained  forever,  degraded  because  she  has  sinned 
once?  Can  she  never  be  clean  again?  Can  she 
not  repent,  oh,  bitterly?  Why  is  the  woman 
damned  and  the  man  forgiven,  sir  ?  No,  no,  no ! 
Don't  cast  me  off  utterly  because  of  what  I  was. 
I'm  not  that  sort  of  woman  now,  I  swear  to  vou 


24o  MONSIGNY 

I'm  not.  If  I've  lied  to-night,  it  was  to  save 
myself  from  just  what  you  are  threatening  now. 
You  don't  blame  a  trapped,  cornered  animal  for 
fighting.  Don't  blame  me  for  lying.  I — I  was  so 
eager  to  put  away  all  that  past  horror,  to  forget 
it,  to  make  believe  it  never  had  been.  I  wanted 
to  start  a  new,  clean,  peaceful  life.  That  isn't  so 
much  to  ask  !  Ah,  don't  refuse  me  !  Give  me  a 
chance  to  show  that  I'm  a  good  woman,  that  I 
can  be  faithful  and  pure  and  constant  like  other 
women.  Oh,  are  you  all  so  immaculate  that  you 
can  turn  a  woman  out  into  the  world,  out  into 
despair  and  hopelessness,  because  she  has  erred 
once,  long,  long  ago?" 

Her  sobbing  had  risen  again  with  her  voice 
until  it  shook  all  the  frail  body  piteously. 

The  old  Earl  raised  his  head  and  his  face  was 
very  sad,  but  it  was  stern  and  inflexible. 

"I  did  not  make  the  law,  my  child,"  said  he, 
''the  great  and  ancient  law  which  condemns  the 
woman  but  not  the  man.  Perhaps  I  should  have 
made  it  differently,  perhaps  not.  It  is  the  law, 
and  we  who  live  here  must  obey  it. " 

"Monseigneur  is  right,  ma  pauvre,"  said  Mme. 
de  Brissal,  from  her  chair  near  the  door.  She  had 
ceased  weeping,  but  her  voice  still  trembled  and 
broke  from  time  to  time,  for  she  was  very  much 


MONSIGNY  241 

moved.  "Monseigneur  is  right,  ma  pauvre.  Sin 
is  a  terrible  thing,  whether  in  a  man  or  in  a  woman, 
but,  I  think,  justly  more  terrible  in  a  woman,  foi 
we  are  of  finer  flesh  and  we  live  not  so  exposed  a 
life.  They  have  a  right,  the  men,  to  demand  that 
the  mothers  of  their  sons  and  daughters  shall  have 
been  honest  women,  and  it  would  be  a  monstrous 
thing  for  a  man  to  give  his  future  innocent  children 
a  mother  whose  life  had  been  impure."  She 
crossed  the  room  and  stood  beside  the  woman 
who  crouched  there,  stroking  the  disheveled 
hair  and  the  hot  cheeks  with  her  trembling 
old  fingers. 

"You  are  still  a  young  woman,  my  child," 
she  continued.  "If  you  should  marry  Richard 
you  might  well  expect  to  bear  children.  Dare 
you  think  of  becoming  the  mother  of  Earls  of 
Strope?  Dare  you  think  of  bringing  into  the 
world  daughters  to  be  tainted  by  your  early  life  ? 
No,  this  marriage  must  not  take  place.  They 
come  of  a  proud  old  house,  Monseigneur  and 
Richard.  They  bear  a  proud  old  name,  and  it 
lays  on  them  obligations.  Oh,  my  child,  it  wrings 
my  old  woman's  heart  to  say  these  things,  but 
they  are  as  true  as  death.  The  marriage  must  not 
take  place." 

But  the  other  woman  turned,  still  kneeling,  and 


242  MONSIGNY 

clasped  the  knees  of  the  man  she  had  promised 
to  marry. 

"  Do  you,  toe ,  cast  me  off,  Richard  ? "  she  asked, 
very  low,  and  she  seemed  to  have  gone  beyond 
tears  and  sobbing  into  a  place  of  deeper  and  more 
terrible  grief.  "Have  you,  as  well,  no  pity? 
Are  yon,  also,  cold  and  just,  terribly  just?  And 
do  you  cling  to  the  law  which  sees  only  one  side  ? 
Oh,  Richard,  Richard,  I  should  make  you  a  faith 
ful  wife  !  I  should  bring  you  comfort  and  content 
and,  I  think,  happiness.  Do  you  cast  me  off, 
Richard  ?  Aye,  I  know  of  what  you  are  thinking. 
I  loved  Ashton  Beresford.  See !  I  am  quite 
honest — I  love  him  now,  but  he  does  not  love  me 
and  I  could  not  marry  him.  You  cannot  under 
stand  because  you  are  a  man.  Oh,  Richard,  I 
should  be  a  good  wife  to  you,  and  I  long  so  for 
peace — peace  and  quiet !  Do  you  cast  me  off, 
Richard?" 

Lord  Stratton  raised  his  face,  white  and  drawn 
and  haggard,  and  caught  his  father's  eye. 

"Leave  us,"  he  said;  "leave  us  for  a  little." 
But  the  old  Earl  came  and  stood  over  him,  looking 
down  very  keenly  into  the  younger  man's  face, 
and  he  put  out  a  hand  upon  the  broad  shoulder. 

"There  will  be  no  weakening,  no  giving  way?" 
he  appealed. 


MONSIGNY  243 

"  There  will  be  no  weakening, "  said  Lord  Strat- 
ton.  Then  the  Earl  straightened  up  with  a  quick 
breath  and,  together  with  Mme.  de  Brissal, 
went  softly  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door 
behind  them. 

They  found  the  others,  who  had  preceded  them, 
in  the  salon  with  its  white-and-gold  furniture  and 
the  great  mirror  over  the  mantel-shelf.  The  old 
gentleman  laid  an  elbow  upon  the  mantel  and 
rested  his  white  head  on  his  hand. 

"  It  is  a  cruel  law, "  said  he,  after  a  time,  "but  it 
is  the  law.  All  law  is  cruel.  What  will  become 
of  her?  I  have  never  liked  her,  but  I  am  sorry 
for  her,  now.  What  will  become  of  her?" 

"  I  shall  try  to  persuade  her  to  marry  me,"  said 
Dimmesdale.  "  I  have  always  loved  her  as  much 
as  such  a  man  as  I  can  love.  I  was  too  much  of  a 
coward  and  too  selfish  to  marry  her  before. 
After  a  time — not  now — but  after  a  time  I  think 
she  will  marry  me.  It  is  the  only  reparation  I 
can  make.  Perhaps  we  shall  be  able,  after  all,  to 
patch  together  something  of  a  life.  She  is  a  good 
woman  by  nature.  She  told  the  truth  about 
that." 

Young  Beresford  had  wandered  restlessly  out 
of  the  room,  into  the  little  hall  that  led  out  to  the 
south  terrace.  Some  one  was  coming  down  the 


244  MONSIGNY 

stairs  from  above,  some  one  all  in  white  with 
certain  roses.  She  halted  a  moment  as  she  saw 
him  in  the  dim  light,  and  then  ran  to  him  with  a 
little  cry. 

"Ah,  you  have  come  back  to  me,  my  heart? 
You  have  come  back  to  me?"  she  said.  And  she 
pressed  close  to  him,  holding  him  by  the  lapels  of 
his  coat — staring  up  into  his  face  with  great  glad 
eyes.  "  You've  come  back  to  me  ? "  she  whispered 
again,  trembling,  and  she  said  the  words  over  and 
over  again  as  if  she  could  not  realise  that  it  was 
true. 

Then  a  sudden  burning  flush  swept  over  young 
Beresford's  cheeks  and  his  arms  went  around  the 
girl,  crushing  her  till  the  breath  caught  and  gasped 
between  her  lips,  lifting  her  from  the  floor  till  her 
eyes  were  close  to  his,  for  in  the  moment  he  had 
forgotten,  like  the  old  Earl,  how  terribly  strong 
he  was. 

When,  after  a  time,  he  set  her  down  again,  they 
were  both  shaking  a  bit  and  very  pale,  and  no 
words  would  come  to  their  lips,  only  stammerings. 
Isabeau  broke  into  a  strange  little  hysterical  fit 
of  laughter. 

"It  is  over,  sweetest,"  said  young  Beresford 
at  last.  "The  trouble  is  over  and  done  with. 
There  is  nothing  between  us  now."  He  raised  the 


MONSIGNY  245 

girl's  two  hands,  palms  upward,  in  his,  and  laid 
his  face  in  them.  It  was  like  laying  one's  face 
in  flowers. 

"There  is  nothing  between  us  now,"  he  said 
again. 

Isabeau's  strange  little  nervous  fit  of  laughter 
stopped  short. 

"What — has  happened?"  she  cried  swiftly. 
"What  has  she — done?  Did  they  make  her — 
did  grandpere  make  her  tell  the  truth?  Ah,  I 
was  afraid  she  would  never  confess !  Is  that 
what  you  were  all  about  in  the  study?  I  heard 
strange  voices  and  cries  and  some  one  weeping 
aloud.  I  did  not  know  what  it  was  all  about. 
Ah,  you're  free,  mon  cceur,  quite  free?" 

Young  Beresford  slipped  an  arm  about  her 
waist  and  turned  toward  the  door  which  gave 
upon  the  south  terrace;  and  she,  moving  a  half- 
pace  before  him,  rested  her  shoulders  and  her 
beautiful  head  against  his  breast,  so  that  as  they 
walked  it  was,  unconsciously,  as  the  other  Isabeau 
de  Monsigny  had  loved  to  walk  with  her  husband 
more  than  twenty  years  before. 

They  went  out  together  into  the  cool  sweet 
moonlight  which  silvered  the  flagstoned  terrace. 
There  was  no  evidence  left  of  the  evening's  rain 
save  a  little  shining  pool  or  two  beside. the  gravel 


246  MONSIGNY 

drive.  There  were  stars  in  a  sapphire  sky,  many 
millions  of  them,  and  a  warm  breeze  bore  up  from 
the  west  with  a  burden  of  roses,  and  brought  from 
the  stables  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  sang  to  a 
mandolin,  old  songs,  old  as  the  walls  of  Chateau 
Monsigny. 

Beresford  glanced  backward  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  gloomy  doorway  from  which  he  had  come, 
and  he  looked  before  him  at  all  the  silver  splendour 
of  the  moonlight.  It  seemed  to  him,  though  he 
was  little  given  to  abstractions  and  imaginings, 
curiously  symbolic — out  of  the  shadow  of  sin  and 
bitterness  and  intrigue  and  jealousy  into  a  moon- 
bathed  garden  that  was  full  of  the  scent  of  roses 
and  the  lilt  of  a  voice  that  sang. 

Isabeau  de  Monsigny  stirred  her  head  where  it 
lay  in  the  hollow  of  his  shoulder  and  "the  soul  of 
gold"  brushed  his  lips — lay  soft  against  his  cheek. 

"Where  are  the  black  butterflies,  monsieur," 
she  whispered.  "  Where  are  the  clouds  that  were 
on  our  souls?  Where  is  the  tristesse  that  hung 
over  Monsigny?" 

"Oh,  gone,  my  queen!"  cried  Ashton  Beres 
ford;  "gone,  gone!" 


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